"7    .  '         r       - 
/ 


THE  VALLEY  OF  VISION 


The  sails  and  smoke-stacks  of  great  ships  were  visible,  all  passing  out  to  sea. 


•  THE 
VALLEY  OF  VISION- 


A   BOOK  OF  ROMANCE 
AND   SOME  HALF-TOLD   TALES 


BY 

HENRY  VAN  DYKE 
».        *• 


**  Your  old  men  shall  dream  dreams, 
Your  young  men  shall  see  visions." 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1919 


Copyriglti,  1915,  1916,  1918,  1919,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 
Published  March,  1919 


Copyright,  IQ13,  K)14,  iQi8,  by  Harper  &•  Brothers 

Copyright,  1913,  by  Life  Publishing  Company 

Copyright,  1918,  by  P.  F.  Collier  &•  Son,  Inc. 

Coyyright,  U)iS,  by  The  Outtoo&  Company 


TO  MY  CHILDREN 
AND  CHILDREN'S  CHILDREN 

WHO   MAY   REMEMBER   THESE   TROUBLOUS   TIMES 
WHEN   WE  ARE   GONE  ON  NEW  ADVENTURE 


PREFACE 

"WHY  do  you  choose  such  a  title  as  The  Valley 
of  Vision  for  your  book,"  said  my  friend;  "do  you 
mean  that  one  can  see  farther  from  the  valley  than 
from  the  mountain-top?" 

This  question  set  me  thinking,  as  every  honest 
question  ought  to  do.  Here  is  the  result  of  my 
thoughts,  which  you  will  take  for  what  it  is  worth, 
if  you  care  to  read  the  book. 

The  mountain-top  is  the  place  of  outlook  over 
the  earth  and  the  sea.  But  it  is  in  the  valley  of 
suffering,  endurance,  and  self-sacrifice  that  the  deep 
est  visions  of  the  meaning  of  life  come  to  us. 

I  take  the  outcome  of  this  Twentieth  Century 
War  as  a  victory  over  the  mad  illusion  of  world- 
dominion  which  the  Germans  saw  from  the  peak  of 
their  military  power  in  1914.  The  united  force  of 
the  Allies  has  grown,  through  valley-visions  of 
right  and  justice  and  human  kindness,  into  an  ir 
resistible  might  before  which  the  German  "will  to 
power"  has  gone  down  in  ruin, 
vii 


PREFACE 

There  are  some  Half-Told  Tales  in  the  volume — 
fables,  fantasies — mere  sketches,  grave  and  gay,  on 
the  margin  of  the  book  of  life, 

"  Where  more  is  meant  than  meets  the  ear." 

Dreams  have  a  part  in  most  of  the  longer  stories. 
That  is  because  I  believe  dreams  have  a  part  in 
real  life.  Some  of  them  we  remember  as  vividly  as 
any  actual  experience.  These  belong  to  the  imper 
fect  sleep.  But  others  we  do  not  remember,  be 
cause  they  are  given  to  us  in  that  perfect  sleep  in 
which  the  soul  is  liberated,  and  goes  visiting.  Yet 
sometimes  we  get  a  trace  of  them,  by  a  happy 
chance,  and  often  their  influence  remains  with  us 
in  that  spiritual  refreshment  with  which  we  awake 
from  profound  slumber.  This  is  the  meaning  of 
that  verse  in  the  old  psalm:  "He  giveth  to  His 
beloved  in  sleep." 

The  final  story  in  the  book  was  written  before 
the  War  of  1914  began,  and  it  has  to  do  with  the 
Light  of  the  World,  leading  us  through  conflict  and 
suffering  towards  Peace. 

AVALON,  November  24,  1918. 

viii 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  Remembered  Dream  1 

Antwerp  Road  15 

A  City  of  Refuge  21 

A  Sanctuary  of  Trees  37 

The  King's  High  Way  67 

The  Traitor  in  the  House  77 

Justice  of  the  Elements  81 

Ashes  of  Vengeance  83 

The  Broken  Soldier  and  the  Maid  of  France  87 

The  Hearing  Ear  137 

Sketches  of  Quebec  159 

A  Classic  Instance  183 

The  New  Era  and  Carry  On  211 

The  Primitive  and  His  Sandals 

Diana  and  the  Lions 

The  Hero  and  Tin  Soldiers  231 

Salvage  Point  237 

The  Boy  of  Nazareth  Dreams  257 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

The  sails  and  smoke-stacks  of  great  ships  were 

visible,  all  passing  out  to  sea  Frontispiece 

Facing  page 

The  cathedral  spire  .  .  .  was  swaying  and  rock 
ing  in  the  air  like  the  mast  of  a  ship  at  sea  10 

All  were  fugitives,  anxious  to  be  gone  .  .  .  and 
making  no  more  speed  than  a  creeping 
snail's  pace  of  unutterable  fatigue  18 

"7  will  ask  you  to  choose  between  your  old  home 

and  your  new  home  now19  78 

'Tm  going  to  carry  you  in,  'spite  of  hell"  156 

"7  was  a  lumberjack"  166 

"7  am  going  to  become  a  virtuous  peasant,  a  son 
of  the  soil,  a  primitive" 

The  Finding  of  Christ  in  the  Temple  304 


A    REMEMBERED    DREAM 


A    REMEMBERED    DREAM 

THIS  is  the  story  of  a  dream  that  came  to  me 
some  five-and-twenty  years  ago.  It  is  as  vivid  in 
memory  as  anything  that  I  have  ever  seen  in  the 
outward  world,  as  distinct  as  any  experience  through 
which  I  have  ever  passed.  Not  all  dreams  are 
thus  remembered.  But  some  are.  In  the  records 

of  the  mind,  where  the  inner  chronicle  of  Kfe  is 

&U&T& 
written,  they  are  intensely  clear  and  veridical.    I 

shall  try  to  tell  the  story  of  this  dream  with  an 
absolute  faithfulness,  adding  nothing  and  leaving 
nothing  out,  but  writing  the  narrative  just  as  if 
the  thing  were  real. 
Perhaps  it  was.    Who  can  say  ? 

In  the  course  of  a  journey,  of  the  beginning  and 
end  of  which  I  know  nothing,  I  had  come  to  a 
great  city,  whose  name,  if  it  was  ever  told  me,  I 
cannot  recall. 

It  was  evidently  a  very  ancient  place.  The 
dwelling-houses  and  larger  buildings  were  gray  and 

3 


.:  .T.HE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

'••*"•**"«*«*"    "c*   ..]  /'" 

beautiful  with  age,  and  the  streets  wound  in  and 
out  among  them  wonderfully,  like  a  maze. 

This  city  lay  beside  a  river  or  estuary— ^though 
that  was  something  that  I  did  not  find  out  until 
later,  as  you  will  see4— and  the  newer  part  of  the 
town  extended  mainly  on  a  wide,  bare  street  run 
ning  along  a  kind  of  low  cliff  or  embankment,  where 
the  basements  of  the  small  houses  on  the  water 
side  went  down,  below  the  level  of  the  street,  to  the 
shore.  But  the  older  part  of  the  town  was  closely 
and  intricately  built,  with  gabled  roofs  and  heavy 
carved  facades  hanging  over  the  narrow  stone- 
paved  ways,  which  here  and  there  led  out  suddenly 
into  open  squares. 

It  was  in  what  appeared  to  be  the  largest  and 
most  important  of  these  squares  that  I  was  stand 
ing,  a  little  before  midnight.  I  had  left  my  wife  and 
our  little  girl  in  the  lodging  which  we  had  found, 
and  walked  out  alone  to  visit  the  sleeping  town. 

The  night  sky  was  clear,  save  for  a  few  filmy 
clouds,  which  floated  over  the  face  of  the  full  moon, 
obscuring  it  for  an  instant,  but  never  completely 
hiding  it — like  veils  in  a  shadow  dance.  The  spire 

4 


A    REMEMBERED    DREAM 

of  the  great  cathedral  was  silver  filigree  on  the 
moonlit  side,  and  on  the  other  side,  black  lace. 
The  square  was  empty.  But  on  the  broad,  shallow 
steps  in  front  of  the  main  entrance  of  the  cathedral 
two  heroic  figures  were  seated.  At  first  I  thought 
they  were  statues.  Then  I  perceived  they  were 
alive,  and  talking  earnestly  together. 

They  were  like  Greek  gods,  very  strong  and 
beautiful,  and  naked  but  for  some  slight  drapery 
that  fell  snow-white  around  them.  They  glistened 
in  the  moonlight.  I  could  not  hear  what  they  were 
saying;  yet  I  could  see  that  they  were  in  a  dispute 
which  went  to  the  very  roots  of  life. 

They  resembled  each  other  strangely  in  form  and 
feature — like  twin  brothers.  But  the  face  of  one 
was  noble,  lofty,  calm,  full  of  a  vast  regret  and 
compassion.  The  face  of  the  other  was  proud,  re 
sentful,  drawn  with  passion.  He  appeared  to  be 
accusing  and  renouncing  his  companion,  breaking 
away  from  an  ancient  friendship  in  a  swift,  im 
placable  hatred.  But  the  companion  seemed  to 
plead  with  him,  and  lean  toward  him,  and  try  to 
draw  him  closer. 

5 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

A  strange  fear  and  sorrow  shook  my  heart.  I 
felt  that  this  mysterious  contest  was  something  of 
immense  importance;  a  secret,  ominous  strife;  a 
menace  to  the  world. 

Then  the  two  figures  stood  up,  marvellously  alike 
in  strength  and  beauty,  yet  absolutely  different  in 
expression  and  bearing,  the  one  serene  and  benig 
nant,  the  other  fierce  and  threatening.  The  quiet 
one  was  still  pleading,  with  a  hand  laid  upon  the 
other's  shoulder.  But  he  shook  it  off,  and  thrust 
his  companion  away  with  a  proud,  impatient  gesture. 

At  last  I  heard  him  speak. 

"I  have  done  with  you,"  he  cried.  "I  do  not 
believe  in  you.  I  have  no  more  need  of  you.  I  re 
nounce  you.  I  will  live  without  you.  Away  for 
ever  out  of  my  life !" 

At  this  a  look  of  ineffable  sorrow  and  pity  came 
upon  the  great  companion's  face. 

"You  are  free,"  he  answered.  "I  have  only  be 
sought  you,  never  constrained  you.  Since  you  will 
have  it  so,  I  must  leave  you,  now,  to  yourself." 

He  rose  into  the  air,  still  looking  downward  with 
wise  eyes  full  of  grief  and  warning,  until  he  van 
ished  in  silence  beyond  the  thin  clouds. 

6 


A    REMEMBERED    DREAM 

The  other  did  not  look  up,  but  lifting  his  head 
with  a  defiant  laugh,  shook  his  shoulders  as  if  they 
were  free  of  a  burden.  He  strode  swiftly  around 
the  corner  of  the  cathedral  and  disappeared  among 
the  deep  shadows. 

A  sense  of  intolerable  calamity  fell  upon  me.  I 
said  to  myself: 

"That  was  Man!  And  the  other  was  God! 
And  they  have  parted ! " 

Then  the  multitude  of  bells  hidden  in  the  lace- 
work  of  the  high  tower  began  to  sound.  It  was 
not  the  aerial  fluttering  music  of  the  carillon  that  I 
remembered  hearing  long  ago  from  the  belfries  of 
the  Low  Countries.  This  was  a  confused  and  stri 
dent  ringing,  jangled  and  broken,  full  of  sudden 
tumults  and  discords,  as  if  the  tower  were  shaken 
and  the  bells  gave  out  their  notes  at  hazard,  in  sur 
prise  and  trepidation. 

It  stopped  as  suddenly  as  it  began.  The  great 
bell  of  the  hours  struck  twelve.  The  windows  of 
the  cathedral  glowed  faintly  with  a  light  from 

within. 

i 

"It  is  New  Year's  Eve,"  I  thought— although  I 
knew  perfectly  well  that  the  time  was  late  sum- 

7 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

mer.  I  had  seen  that  though  the  leaves  on  the 
trees  of  the  square  were  no  longer  fresh,  they  had 
not  yet  fallen. 

I  was  certain  that  I  must  go  into  the  cathedral. 
The  western  entrance  was  shut.  I  hurried  to  the 
south  side.  The  dark,  low  door  of  the  transept  was 
open.  I  went  in.  The  building  was  dimly  lighted 
by  huge  candles  which  flickered  and  smoked  like 
torches.  I  noticed  that  one  of  them,  fastened 
against  a  pillar,  was  burning  crooked,  and  the  tal 
low  ran  down  its  side  in  thick  white  tears. 

The  nave  of  the  church  was  packed  with  a  vast 
throng  of  people,  all  standing,  closely  crowded  to 
gether,  like  the  undergrowth  in  a  forest.  The  rood- 
screen  was  open,  or  broken  down,  I  could  not  tell 
which.  The  choir  was  bare,  like  a  clearing  in  the 
woods,  and  filled  with  blazing  light. 

On  the  high  steps,  with  his  back  to  the  altar, 
stood  Man,  his  face  gleaming  with  pride. 

"I  am  the  Lord!"  he  cried.  "There  is  none 
above  me !  No  law,  no  God !  Man  is  power. 
Man  is  the  highest  of  all !" 

A  tremor  of  wonder  and  dismay,  of  excitement 
8 


A    REMEMBERED    DREAM 

—and division-,  shivered  through  the  crowd.  Some 
covered  their  faces.  Others  stretched  out  their 
hands.  Others  shook  their  fists  in  the  air.  A  tu 
mult  of  voices  broke  from  the  multitude — voices 
of  exultation,  and  anger,  and  horror,  and  strife. 

The  floor  of  the  cathedral  was  moved  and  lifted 
by  a  mysterious  ground-swell.  The  pillars  trembled 
and  wavered.  The  candles  flared  and  went  out. 
The  crowd,  stricken  dumb  with  a  panic  fear,  rushed 
to  the  doors,  burst  open  the  main  entrance,  and 
struggling  in  furious  silence  poured  out  of  the  build 
ing.  I  was  swept  along  with  them,  striving  to  keep 
on  my  feet. 

One  thought  possessed  me.  I  must  get  to  my 
wife  and  child,  save  them,  bring  them  out  of  this 
accursed  city. 

As  I  hurried  across  the  square  I  looked  up  at 
the  cathedral  spire.  It  was  swaying  and  rocking  in 
the  air  like  the  mast  of  a  ship  at  sea.  The  lace- work 
fell  from  it  in  blocks  of  stone.  The  people  rushed 
screaming  through  the  rain  of  death.  Many  were 
struck  down,  and  lay  where  they  fell. 

I  ran  as  fast  as  I  could.  But  it  was  impossible 
9 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

to  run  far.  Every  street  and  alley  vomited  men — 
all  struggling  together,  fighting,  shouting,  or  shriek 
ing,  striking  one  another  down,  trampling  over  the 
fallen — a  hideous  melee.  There  was  an  incessant 
rattling  noise  in  the  air,  and  heavier  peals  as  of 
thunder  shook  the  houses.  Here  a  wide  rent 
yawned  in  a  wall — there  a  roof  caved  in — the  win 
dows  fell  into  the  street  in  showers  of  broken 
glass. 

How  I  got  through  this  inferno  I  do  not  know. 
Buffeted  and  blinded,  stumbling  and  scrambling  to 
my  feet  again,  turning  this  way  or  that  way  to 
avoid  the  thickest  centres  of  the  strife,  oppressed 
and  paralyzed  by  a.  feeling  of  impotence  that  put 
an  iron  band  around  my  heart,  driven  always  by 
the  intense  longing  to  reach  my  wife  and  child, 
somehow  I  had  a  sense  of  struggling  on.  Then  I 
came  into  a  quieter  quarter  of  the  town,  and  ran 
until  I  reached  the  lodging  where  I  had  left  them. 

They  were  waiting  just  inside  the  door,  anxious 
and  trembling.  But  I  was  amazed  to  find  them  so 
little  panic-stricken.  The  little  girl  had  her  doll  in 
her  arms. 

10 


The  cathedral  spire  .  .  .  was  swaying  and  rocking  in  the  air  like  the  mast 
of  a  ship  at  sea. 


A    REMEMBERED    DREAM 

"What  is  it?"  asked  my  wife.  "What  must  we 
do?" 

"Come,"  I  cried.  "Something  frightful  has  hap 
pened  here.  I  can't  explain  now.  We  must  get 
away  at  once.  Come,  quickly." 

Then  I  took  a  hand  of  each  and  we  hastened 
through  the  streets,  vaguely  steering  away  from 
the  centre  of  the  city. 

|  Presently  we  came  into  that  wide  new  street  of 
mean  houses,  of  which  I  have  already  spoken. 
There  were  a  few  people  in  it,  but  they  moved  heav 
ily  and  feebly,  as  if  some  mortal  illness  lay  upon 
them.  Their  faces  were  pale  and  haggard  with  a 
helpless  anxiety  to  escape  more  quickly.  [  The 
houses  seemed  half  deserted.  The  shades  were 
drawn,  the  doors  closed. 

But  since  it  was  all  so  quiet,  I  thought  that  we 
might  find  some  temporary  shelter  there.  So  I 
knocked  at  the  door  of  a  house  where  there  was  a 
dim  light  behind  the  drawn  shade  in  one  of  the  win 
dows. 

After  a  while  the  door  was  opened  by  a  woman 
who  held  the  end  of  her  shawl  across  her  mouth. 

11 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

All  that  I  could  see  was  the  black  sorrow  of  her 
eyes. 

"Go  away,"  she  said  slowly;  "the  plague  is  here. 
My  children  are  dying  of  it.  You  must  not  come 
in !  Go  away." 

So  we  hurried  on  through  that  plague-smitten 
street,  burdened  with  a  new  fear.  Soon  we  saw  a 
house  on  the  riverside  which  looked  absolutely 
empty.  The  shades  were  up,  the  windows  open, 
the  door  stood  ajar.  I  hesitated;  plucked  up  cour 
age;  resolved  that  we  must  get  to  the  waterside  in 
some  way  in  order  to  escape  from  the  net  of  death 
which  encircled  us. 

"Come,"  I  said,  "let  us  try  to  go  down  through 
this  house.  But  cover  your  mouths." 

We  groped  through  the  empty  passageway,  and 
down  the  basement-stair.  The  thick  cobwebs 
swept  my  face.  I  noted  them  with  joy,  for  I  thought 
they  proved  that  the  house  had  been  deserted  for 

some  time,  and  so  perhaps  it  might  not  be  infected. 
i 
We  descended  into  a  room  which  seemed  to  have 

been  the  kitchen.  There  was  a  stove  dimly  visible 
at  one  side,  and  an  old  broken  kettle  on  the  floor, 

12 


A    REMEMBERED    DREAM 

over  which  we  stumbled.  The  back  door  was  locked. 
But  it  swung  outward  as  I  broke  it  open.  We 
stood  upon  a  narrow,  dingy  beach,  where  the  small 
waves  were  lapping. 

By  this  time  the  "little  day"  had  begun  to  whiten 
the  eastern  sky;  a  pallid  light  was  diffused;  I  could 
see  westward  down  to  the  main  harbor,  beside  the 
heart  of  the  city.  The  sails  and  smoke-stacks  of 
great  ships  were  visible,  all  passing  out  to  sea.  I 
wished  that  we  were  there. 

Here  in  front  of  us  the  water  seemed  shallower. 
It  was  probably  only  a  tributary  or  backwater  of 
the  main  stream.  But  it  was  sprinkled  with  smaller 
vessels — sloops,  and  yawls,  and  luggers— all  filled 
with  people  and  slowly  creeping  seaward. 

There  was  one  little  boat,  quite  near  to  us,  which 
seemed  to  be  waiting  for  some  one.  There  were 
some  people  on  it,  but  it  was  not  crowded. 

"Come,"  I  said,  "this  is  for  us.  We  must  wade 
out  to  it." 

So  I  took  my  wife  by  the  hand,  and  the  child 
in  the  other  arm,  and  we  went  into  the  water. 
Soon  it  came  up  to  our  knees,  to  our  waists. 

13 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

"Hurry,"  shouted  the  old  man  at  the  tiller. 
"No  time  to  spare !" 

"Just  a  minute  more,"  I  answered,  "only  one 
minute!" 

That  minute  seemed  like  a  year.  The  sail  of 
the  boat  was  shaking  in  the  wind.  When  it  filled 
she  must  move  away.  We  waded  on,  and  at  last 
I  grasped  the  gunwale  of  the  boat.  I  lifted  the 
child  in  and  helped  my  wife  to  climb  over  the  side. 
They  clung  to  me.  The  little  vessel  began  to  move 
gently  away. 

"Getkin,"  cried  the  old  man  sharply;  "get  in 
quick." 

But  I  felt  that  I  could  not,  I  dared  not.  I  let  go 
of  the  boat.  I  cried  "Good-by,"  and  turned  to 
wade  ashore. 

I  was  compelled  to  go  back  to  the  doomed  city. 
I  must  know  what  would  come  of  the  parting  of 
Man  from  God ! 

The  tide  was  running  out  more  swiftly.  The 
water  swirled  around  my  knees.  I  awoke. 

But  the  dream  remained  with  me,  just  as  I  have 
told  it  to  you. 

14 


ANTWERP    ROAD 


ANTWERP    ROAD 

[OCTOBER,  1914] 

ALONG  the  straight,  glistening  road,  through  a 
dim  arcade  of  drooping  trees,  a  tunnel  of  faded 
green  and  gold,  dripping  with  the  misty  rain  of  a 
late  October  afternoon,  a  human  tide  was  flowing, 
not  swiftly,  but  slowly,  with  the  patient,  pathetic 
slowness  of  weary  feet,  and  numb  brains,  and  heavy 
hearts. 

Yet  they  were  in  haste,  all  of  these  old  men  and 
women,  fathers  and  mothers,  and  little  children; 
they  were  flying  as  fast  as  they  could;  either  away 
from  something  that  they  feared,  or  toward  some 
thing  that  they  desired. 

That  was  the  strange  thing — the  tide  on  the  road 
flowed  in  two  directions. 

Some  fled  away  from  ruined  homes  to  escape  the 
perils  of  war.  Some  fled  back  to  ruined  homes  to 
escape  the  desolation  of  exile.  But  all  were  fugi 
tives,  anxious  to  be  gone,  striving  along  the  road 
one  way  or  the  other,  and  making  no  more  speed 
than  a  creeping  snail's  pace  of  unutterable  fatigue. 

17 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

I  saw  many  separate  things  in  the  tide,  and  re 
membered  them  without  noting. 

A  boy  straining  to  push  a  wheelbarrow  with  his 
pale  mother  in  it,  and  his  two  little  sisters  trudging 
at  his  side.  A  peasant  with  his  two  girls  driving 
their  lean,  dejected  cows  back  to  some  unknown 
pasture.  A  bony  horse  tugging  at  a  wagon  heaped 
high  with  bedding  and  household  gear,  on  top  of 
which  sat  the  wrinkled  grandmother  with  the  tini 
est  baby  in  her  arms,  while  the  rest  of  the  family 
stumbled  alongside — and  the  cat  was  curled  up  on 
the  softest  coverlet  in  the  wagon.  Two  panting 
dogs,  with  red  tongues  hanging  out,  and  splayed 
feet  clawing  the  road,  tugging  a  heavy-laden  cart 
while  the  master  pushed  behind  and  the  woman 
pulled  in  the  shafts.  Strange,  antique  vehicles 
crammed  with  passengers.  Couples  and  groups 
and  sometimes  larger  companies  of  foot-travellers. 
Now  and  then  a  solitary  man  or  woman,  old  and 
shabby,  bundle  on  back,  eyes  on  the  road,  plodding 
through  the  mud  and  the  mist,  under  the  high  arch 
way  of  yellowing  leaves. 

All  these  distinct  pictures  I  saw,  yet  it  was  all 
18 


ANTWERP    ROAD 

one  vision — a  vision  of  humanity  with  its  dumb 
companions  in  flight — infinitely  slow,  painful,  piti 
ful  flight ! 

I  saw  no  tears,  I  heard  no  cries  of  complaint. 
But  beneath  the  numb  and  patient  haste  on  all 
those  dazed  faces  I  saw  a  question. 

"What  have  we  done?  Why  has  this  thing  came 
upon  us  and  our  children?" 

Somewhere  I  heard  a  trumpet  blown.  The 
brazen  spikes  on  the  helmets  of  a  little  troop  of 
German  soldiers  flashed  for  an  instant,  far  down 
the  sloppy  road.  Through  the  humid  dusk  came 
the  dull,  distant  booming  of  the  unseen  guns  of 
conquest  in  Flanders. 

That  was  the  only  answer. 


19 


A    CITY    OF    REFUGE 


A    CITY    OF    REFUGE 

IN  the  dark  autumn  of  1914  the  City  sprang  up 
almost  in  a  night,  as  if  by  enchantment. 

It  was  white  magic  that  called  it  into  being — the 
deep,  quiet,  strong  impulse  of  compassion  and  pro 
tection  that  moved  the  motherly  heart  of  Holland 
when  she  saw  the  hundreds  of  thousands  of  Belgian 
fugitives  pouring  out  of  their  bleeding,  ravaged  land, 
and  running,  stumbling,  creeping  on  hands  and 
knees,  blindly,  instinctively  turning  to  her  for 
safety  and  help. 

"Come  to  me,"  she  said,  like  a  good  woman  who 
holds  out  her  arms  and  spreads  her  knees  to  make  a 
lap  for  tired  and  frightened  children,  "come  to  me. 
I  will  take  care  of  you.  You  shall  be  safe  with  me." 

All  doors  were  open.  The  little  brick  farm 
houses  and  cottages  with  their  gayly  painted  win 
dow-shutters;  the  long  rows  of  city  houses  with 
their  steep  gables;  the  prim  and  placid  country 
23 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

mansions  set  among  their  high  trees  and  formal 
flower-gardens — all  kinds  of  dwellings,  from  the 
poorest  to  the  richest,  welcomed  these  guests  of 
sorrow  and  distress.  Many  a  humble  family  drained 
its  savings-bank  reservoir  to  keep  the  stream  of  its 
hospitality  flowing.  Unused  factories  were  turned 
into  barracks.  Deserted  summer  hotels  were  filled 
up.  Even  empty  greenhouses  were  adapted  to 
the  need  of  human  horticulture.  All  Holland  was 
enrolled,  formally  or  informally,  in  a  big  ComitS  voor 
Belgische  Slachtoffers. 

But  soon  it  was  evident  that  the  impromptu 
methods  of  generosity  could  not  meet  the  demands 
of  the  case.  Private  resources  were  exhausted. 
Poor  people  could  no  longer  feed  and  clothe  their 
poorer  guests.  Families  were  unhappily  divided. 
In  the  huge  flock  of  exiles  driven  out  by  the  cruel 
German  Terror  there  were  goats  as  well  as  sheep, 
and  some  of  them  bewildered  and  shocked  the  or 
derly  Dutch  homes  where  they  were  sheltered,  by 
their  nocturnal  habits  and  negligible  morals.  Some 
thing  had  to  be  done  to  bring  order  and  system  into 
the  chaos  of  brotherly  love.  Otherwise  the  neat 

24 


A    CITY    OF    REFUGE 

Dutch  mind  which  is  so  close  to  the  Dutch  heart 
could  not  rest  in  its  bed.  This  vast  trouble  which 
the  evil  of  German  militarism  had  thrust  upon  a 
helpless  folk  must  be  helped  out  by  a  wise  touch  of 
military  organization,  which  is  a  good  thing  even 
for  the  most  peaceful  people. 

So  it  was  that  the  City  of  Refuge  (and  others 
like  it)  grew  up  swiftly  in  the  wilderness. 

It  stands  in  the  heathland  that  slopes  and  rolls 
from  the  wooded  hills  of  Gelderland  to  the  southern 
shore  of  the  Zuider  Zee — a  sandy  country  overgrown 
with  scrub-oaks  and  pines  and  heather — yet  very 
healthy  and  well  drained,  and  not  unfertile  under 
cultivation.  You  may  see  that  in  the  little  neigh 
bor-village,  where  the  trees  arch  over  the  streets, 
and  the  kitchen-gardens  prosper,  and  the  shrubs 
and  flowers  bloom  abundantly. 

The  small  houses  and  hotels  of  this  tiny  summer 
resort  are  of  brick.  It  has  an  old,  well-established 
look;  a  place  of  relaxation  with  restraint,  not  of 
ungirdled  frivolity.  The  plain  Dutch  people  love 
their  holidays,  but  they  take  them  serenely  and  by 
rule:  long  walks  and  bicycle-rides,  placid  and 
25 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

nourishing  picnics  in  the  woods  or  by  the  sea,  after 
noon  tea-parties  in  sheltered  arbors.  One  of  their 
favorite  names  for  a  country-place  is  Wei  Tevreden, 
"perfectly  contented." 

The  commandant  of  the  City  of  Refuge  lives  in 
one  of  the  little  brick  houses  of  the  village.  He  is  a 
portly,  rosy  old  bachelor,  with  a  curly  brown  beard 
and  a  military  bearing;  a  man  of  fine  education 
and  wide  experience,  seasoned  in  colonial  diplo 
macy.  The  ruling  idea  in  his  mind  is  discipline, 
authority.  His  official  speech  is  abrupt  and  final, 
the  manner  of  a  martinet  covering  a  heart  full  of 
kindness  and  generous  impulses. 

"Come,"  he  says,  after  a  good  breakfast,  "I 
want  you  to  see  my  camp.  It  is  not  as  fine  and 
fancy  as  the  later  ones.  But  we  built  it  in  a  hurry 
and  we  had  it  ready  on  time." 

A  short  ride  over  a  sandy  road  brings  you  to 
the  city  gate — an  opening  in  the  wire  enclosure  of 
perhaps  two  or  three  square  miles  among  the 
dwarf  pines  and  oaks.  The  guard-house  is  kept  by 
a  squad  of  Dutch  soldiers.  But  it  is  in  no  sense  a 
prison-camp,  for  people  are  coming  and  going  freely 


A    CITY    OF    REFUGE 

all  the  time,  and  the  only  rules  within  are  those  of 
decency  and  good  order. 

"Capacity,  ten  thousand,"  says  the  commandant, 
sweeping  his  hand  around  the  open  circle,  "quite 
a  city,  niet  waar?  I  will  show  you  the  various  ar 
rangements." 

All  the  buildings  are  of  wood,  a  mushroom  city, 
but  constructed  with  intelligence  to  meet  the  needs 
of  the  sudden,  helpless  population.  You  visit  the 
big  kitchen  with  its  ever-simmering  kettles;  the 
dining-halls  with  their  long  tables  and  benches; 
the  schoolhouses  full  of  lively,  irrepressible  children; 
the  wash-house  where  always  talkative  and  jocose 
laundresses  are  scrubbing  and  wringing  the  clothes; 
the  sewing-rooms  where  hundreds  of  women  and 
girls  are  busy  with  garments  and  gossip;  the  chapel 
where  religious  services  are  held  by  the  devoted 
pastors;  the  recreation-room  which  is  the  social 
centre  of  the  city;  the  clothing  storerooms  where 
you  find  several  American  girls  working  for  love. 

Then  you  go  through  the  long  family  barracks 
where  each  family  has  a  separate  cubicle,  more  or 
less  neat  and  comfortable,  sometimes  prettily  dec- 

27 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

orated,  according  to  the  family  taste  and  habit;  the 
barracks  for  the  single  men;  the  barracks  for  the 
single  women;  the  two  hospitals,  one  general,  the 
other  for  infectious  diseases;  and  last  of  all,  the 
house  where  the  half-dozen  disorderly  women  are 
confined,  surrounded  by  a  double  fence  of  barbed 
wire  and  guarded  by  a  sentry. 

Poor,  wretched  creatures !  You  are  sorry  for 
them.  Why  not  put  the  disorderly  men  into  a 
house  of  confinement,  too? 

"Ah,"  says  the  commandant  bluntly,  "we  find 
it  easier  and  better  to  send  the  disorderly  men  to 
jail  or  hospital  in  some  near  town.  We  are  easier 
with  the  women.  I  pity  them.  But  they  are  full  of 
poison.  We  can't  let  them  go  loose  in  the  camp  for 
fear  of  infection." 

How  many  of  the  roots  of  human  nature  are 
uncovered  in  a  place  like  this !  The  branches  and 
the  foliage  and  the  blossoms,  too,  are  seen  more 
clearly  in  this  air  where  all  things  are  necessarily 
open  and  in  common. 

The  men  are  generally  less  industrious  than  the 
women.  But  they  work  willingly  at  the  grading 

28 


A    CITY    OF    REFUGE 

of  roads  and  paths,  the  laying  out  and  planting  of 
flower-beds,  the  construction  of  ornamental  de 
signs,  of  doubtful  taste  but  unquestionable  sincerity. 

You  read  the  names  which  they  have  given  to 
the  different  streets  and  barracks,  and  the  passage 
ways  between  the  cubicles,  and  you  understand  the 
strong,  instinctive  love  which  binds  them  to  their 
native  Belgium.  "Antwerp  Avenue,"  "Louvain 
Avenue,"  "Malines  Street,"  "Liege  Street,"  and 
streets  bearing  the  names  of  many  ruined  towns 
and  villages  of  which  you  have  never  heard,  but 
which  are  forever  dear  to  the  hearts  of  these  exiles. 
The  names  of  the  hero-king,  Albert,  and  of  his 
brave  consort,  Queen  Elizabeth,  are  honored  by 
inscriptions,  and  their  pictures,  cut  from  news 
papers,  decorate  the  schoolrooms  and  the  little 
family  cubicles. 

The  brutal  power  which  reigns  at  Berlin  may 
drive  the  Belgians  out  of  Belgium  by  terror  and 
oppression.  But  it  cannot  drive  Belgium  out  of 
the  hearts  of  the  Belgians.  While  they  live  their 
country  lives,  and  Albert  is  still  their  King. 

But  think  of  the  unnatural  conditions  into  which 
29 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

these  thousands  of  human  beings — yes,  and  hun 
dreds  of  thousands  like  them,  torn  from  their  homes, 
uprooted,  dispersed,  impoverished — are  forced  by 
this  bitter,  cruel  war.  Think  of  the  cold  and  ruined 
hearthstones,  the  scattered  families,  the  shelterless 
children,  the  desolate  and  broken  hearts.  This  is 
what  Germany  has  inflicted  upon  mankind  in  or 
der  to  realize  her  robber-dream ! 

Yet  the  City  of  Refuge,  being  human,  has  its 
bright  spots  and  its  bits  of  compensation.  Here  is 
one,  out  of  many. 

The  chief  nurse,  a  young  Dutch  lady  of  charm 
ing  face  and  manners,  serving  as  a  volunteer  un 
der  the  sacred  sign  of  the  Red  Cross,  comes  in,  one 
morning,  to  make  her  report  to  the  commandant. 

"Well,"  he  says,  disguising  in  his  big  voice  of 
command  the  warm  admiration  which  he  feels  for 
the  lady,  "what  is  the  trouble  to-day?  Speak 
up." 

"Nothing,  sir,"  she  answers  calmly.  "Every 
thing  is  going  on  pretty  well.  No  new  cases  of 
measles — those  in  hospital  improving.  The  only 
thing  that  bothers  me  is  the  continual  complaint 

30 


A    CITY    OF    REFUGE 

about  that  Mrs.  Van  Orley — you  remember  her,  a 
thin,  dark  little  person.  She  is  melancholy  and 
morose,  quarrels  all  the  time,  says  some  one  has 
stolen  her  children.  The  people  near  her  in  the 
barracks  complain  that  she  disturbs  them  at  night, 
moans  and  talks  aloud  in  her  sleep,  jumps  up  and 
runs  down  the  corridor  laughing  or  crying:  'Here 
they  are!'  They  don't  believe  she  ever  had  any 
children.  They  think  she  is  crazy  and  want  her 
put  out.  But  I  don't  agree  with  that.  I  think  she 
has  had  children,  and  now  she  has  dreams." 

"Send  her  away,"  growls  the  commandant  ; 
"send  her  to  a  sanatorium!  This  camp  is  not  a 
lunatic  asylum." 

"But,"  interposes  the  nurse  in  her  most  dis 
creet  voice,  "she  is  really  a  very  nice  woman.  If 
you  would  allow  me  to  take  her  on  as  a  housemaid 
in  the  general  hospital,  I  think  I  could  make  some 
thing  out  of  her;  at  least  I  should  like  to  try." 

"Have  your  own  way,"  says  the  commandant, 
relenting;  "you  always  do.  Now  tell  me  the  next 
trouble.  You  have  something  more  up  your  sleeve, 
I'm  sure." 

31 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

"Babies,"  she  replies  demurely;  "two  babies 
from  Amsterdam.  Lost,  somehow  or  other,  in  the 
flight.  No  trace  of  their  people.  A  family  in 
Zaandam  has  been  taking  care  of  them,  but  can't 
afford  it  any  longer.  So  the  Amsterdam  committee 
has  sent  them  here." 

The  commandant  has  listened,  his  cheeks  grow 
ing  redder  and  redder,  his  eyes  rounder  and  more 
prominent.  He  springs  up  and  paces  the  floor  in 
wrath. 

"Babies!"  he  cries  stormily.  "By  all  the  gods, 
da —  those  Amsterdammers !  Excuse  me,  but  this 
is  too  much.  Do  they  think  this  is  a  foundling 
asylum  ?  or  a  nursing  home  ?  Babies !  What  in 
Heaven's  name  am  I  to  do  with  them  ?  Babies ! 
Where  are  those  babies?" 

"Just  outside,  and  very  nice  babies  indeed," 
says  the  nurse,  opening  the  hall  door  and  giving 
a  soft  call. 

Enter  a  slim  black-haired  boy  of  about  three 
and  a  half  years  and  a  plump  golden-haired  girl 
about  a  year  younger.  They  toddle  to  the  nurse 
and  snuggle  against  her  blue  dress  and  white  apron. 

32 


A    CITY    OF    REFUGE 

Smiling  she  guides  them  toward  the  commandant 
and  says:  "Here  they  are,  sir.  How  do  you  like 
them?" 

That  terrific  personage  has  been  suddenly  trans 
formed  from  haircloth  into  silk.  He  beams,  and 
pulling  out  his  fat  gold  watch,  coos  like  a  hoarse 
dove:  "Look  here,  kinderen,  come  and  hear  the 
bells  in  my  tick-tock !" 

Presently  he  has  one  of  them  leaning  against 
the  inside  of  each  knee,  listening  ardently  to  the 
watch. 

"What  do  you  think  of  that !"  he  says.  "What 
is  your  name,  youngster?" 

"Hendrik,"  answers  the  boy,  looking  up. 

"Hendrik  what?  You  have  another  name, 
haven't  you  ?  " 

The  boy  shakes  his  head  and  looks  puzzled,  as 
if  the  thought  of  two  names  were  too  much  for  him. 
"Hendrik,"  he  repeats  more  clearly  and  firmly. 

"And  what  is  her  name?"  asks  the  commandant, 
patting  the  little  girl. 

"Sooss,"  answers  the  boy.  "Mama  say  'ickle 
angel.9  Hendrik  say  Sooss." 

33 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

All  effort  to  get  any  more  information  from  the 
children  was  fruitless.  They  were  too  small  to  re 
member  much,  and  what  they  did  remember  was 
of  their  own  size — only  very  little  things,  of  no  im 
portance  except  to  themselves.  The  commandant 
looks  at  the  nurse  quizzically. 

"Now,  miss,  you  have  unloaded  these  vague 
babies  on  me.  What  do  you  propose  that  I  should 
do  with  them  ?  Adopt  them  ?  " 

"Not  yet,  anyhow,"  she  answers,  smiling  broadly. 
"Let  us  take  them  up  to  the  camp.  I'll  bet  we  can 
find  some  one  there  to  look  after  them.  What  do 
you  say,  sir?" 

"Well,  well,"  he  sighs,  "have  your  own  way  as 
usual !  Just  ring  that  bell  for  the  automobile,  als't- 
Ubliefi." 

In  the  busy  sewing-room  the  two  children  are 
standing  up  on  one  of  the  tables.  The  commandant 
has  an  arm  around  each  of  them,  for  they  are  a 
little  frightened  by  so  much  noise  and  so  many  eyes 
looking  at  them.  The  chatter  dies  down,  as  he 
speaks  in  his  gruff  authoritative  voice,  but  with  a 
twinkle  in  his  eyes,  rather  like  a  middle-aged  Santa 
Claus. 

34 


A    CITY    OF    REFUGE 

"Look  here !    I've  got  two  fine  babies." 

A  titter  runs  through  the  room. 

"Ja,  Men'eer"  says  one  of  the  women,  "con 
gratulations  !  They  are  lievelingen — darlings  ! " 

"Silence!"  growls  the  commandant  amiably. 
"None  of  your  impudence,  you  women.  Look  here  ! 
These  two  children — I  want  somebody  to  adopt 
them,  or  at  least  to  take  care  of  them.  I  will  pay 
for  them.  Their  names  are  Hendrik  and " 

A  commotion  at  the  lower  end  of  the  room.  A 
thin,  dark  little  woman  is  standing  up,  waving  her 
piece  of  sewing  like  a  flag,  her  big  eyes  flaming  with 
excitement. 

"Stop!"  she  cries,  hurrying  and  stumbling  for 
ward  through  the  crowd  of  women  and  girls.  "Oh, 
stop  a  minute !  They  are  mine — I  lost  them — 
mine,  I  tell  you — lost — mine!" 

She  reaches  the  head  of  the  table  and  flings  her 
arms  around  the  boy,  crying:  "My  Hendrik!" 

The  boy  hesitates  a  second,  startled  by  the  sud 
den  wildness  of  her  caress.  Then  he  presses  his 
hot  little  face  in  her  neck. 

"Lieve  moeder!"  he  murmurs.  "Where  was 
you?  I  looked." 

35 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

But  the  thin,  dark  little  woman  has  fainted  dead 
away. 

The  rest  we  will  leave,  as  the  wise  commandant 
does,  to  the  chief  nurse. 


36 


A    SANCTUARY    OF    TREES 


A    SANCTUARY    OF    TREES 

THE  Baron  d'Azan  was  old — older  even  than  his 
seventy  years.  His  age  showed  by  contrast  as  he 
walked  among  his  trees.  They  were  fresh  and  flour 
ishing,  full  of  sap  and  vigor,  though  many  of  them 
had  been  born  long  before  him. 

The  tracts  of  forest  which  still  belonged  to  his 
diminished  estate  were  crowded  with  the  growths 
native  to  the  foot-hills  of  the  Ardennes.  In  the 
park  around  the  small  chateau,  built  in  a  Belgian 
version  of  the  First  Empire  style,  trees  from  many 
lands  had  been  assembled  by  his  father  and  grand 
father:  drooping  spruces  from  Norway,  dark-pil 
lared  cypresses  from  Italy,  spreading  cedars  from 
Lebanon,  trees  of  heaven  from  China,  fern-leaved 
gingkos  from  Japan,  lofty  tulip-trees  and  liquidam- 
bars  from  America,  and  fantastic  sylvan  forms  from 
islands  of  the  Southern  Ocean.  But  the  royal  avenue 
of  beeches !  Well,  I  must  tell  you  more  about  that, 
else  you  can  never  feel  the  meaning  of  this  story. 

39 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

The  love  of  trees  was  hereditary  in  the  family 
and  antedated  their  other  nobility.  The  founder 
of  the  house  had  begun  life  as  the  son  of  a  forester 
in  Luxemburg.  His  name  was  Pol  Staar.  His  for 
tune  and  title  were  the  fruit  of  contracts  for  horses 
and  provisions  which  he  made  with  the  commis 
sariat  of  Napoleon  I.  in  the  days  when  the  Nether 
lands  were  a  French  province.  But  though  Pol 
Staar's  hands  were  callous  and  his  manners  plain, 
his  tastes  were  aristocratic.  They  had  been  formed 
young  in  the  company  of  great  trees. 

Therefore  when  he  bought  his  estate  of  Azan 
(and  took  his  title  from  it)  he  built  his  chateau  in 
a  style  which  he  considered  complimentary  to  his 
imperial  patron,  but  he  was  careful  also  to  include 
within  his  domain  large  woodlands  in  which  he 
could  renew  the  allegiance  of  his  youth.  These 
woodlands  he  cherished  and  improved,  cutting  with 
discretion,  planting  with  liberality,  and  rejoicing 
in  the  thought  that  trees  like  those  which  had  be 
friended  his  boyhood  would  give  their  friendly  pro 
tection  to  his  heirs.  These  are  traits  of  an  aristo 
crat — attachment  to  the  past,  and  careful  provision 

40 


A    SANCTUARY    OF    TREES 

for  posterity.  It  was  in  this  spirit  that  Pol  Staar, 
first  Baron  d'Azan,  planted  in  1809  the  broad  avenue 
of  beeches,  leading  from  the  chateau  straight  across 
the  park  to  the  highroad.  But  he  never  saw  their 
glory,  for  he  died  when  they  were  only  twenty  years 
old. 

His  son  and  successor  was  of  a  different  timber 
and  grain;  less  aristocratic,  more  bourgeois — a 
rover,  a  gambler,  a  man  of  fashion.  He  migrated 
from  the  gaming-tables  at  Spa  to  the  Bourse  at 
Paris,  perching  at  many  clubs  between  and  beyond, 
and  making  seasonal  nests  in  several  places.  This 
left  him  little  time  for  the  Chateau  d'Azan.  But 
he  came  there  every  spring  and  autumn,  and  showed 
the  family  fondness  for  trees  in  his  own  fashion. 
He  loved  the  forests  so  much  that  he  ate  them.  He 
cut  with  liberality  and  planted  without  discretion. 
But  for  the  great  avenue  of  beeches  he  had  a  saving 
admiration.  Not  even  to  support  the  gaming-table 
would  he  have  allowed  them  to  be  felled. 

When  he  turned  the  corner  of  his  thirty-first 
year  he  had  a  sharp  illness,  a  temporary  reforma 
tion,  and  brought  home  as  his  wife  a  very  young 

41 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

and  lovely  actress  from  the  ducal  theatre  at  Saxe- 
Meiningen.  She  was  a  good  girl,  deeply  in  love 
with  her  handsome  husband,  to  whom  she  bore  a 
son  and  heir  in  the  first  year  of  their  marriage.  Not 
many  moons  thereafter  the  pleased  but  restless 
father  slid  back  into  his  old  rounds  again.  The 
forest  waned  and  the  debts  waxed.  Rumors  of 
wild  doings  came  from  Spa  and  Aix,  from  Hom- 
burg  and  Baden,  from  Trouville  and  Ostend.  After 
four  years  of  this  the  young  mother  died,  of  no 
namable  disease,  unless  you  call  it  heart-failure, 
and  the  boy  was  left  to  his  grandmother's  care  and 
company  among  the  trees. 

Every  day  when  it  was  fair  the  old  lady  and  the 
little  lad  took  their  afternoon  walk  together  in  the 
beech-tree  avenue,  where  the  tips  of  the  branches 
now  reached  the  road.  At  other  times  he  roamed 
the  outlying  woods  and  learned  to  know  the  birds 
and  the  little  wild  animals.  When  he  was  twelve 
his  grandmother  died.  After  that  he  was  left  mainly 
to  the  housekeeper,  his  tutors,  and  the  few  friends 
he  could  make  among  the  children  of  the  neighbor 
hood. 

42 


A    SANCTUARY    OF    TREES 

When  he  had  finished  his  third  year  at  the  Uni 
versity  of  Louvain  and  attained  his  majority,  his 
father  returned  express-haste  from  somewhere  in 
Bohemia,  to  attend  the  coronation  of  Leopold  II., 
that  remarkable  King  of  Belgium  and  the  Bourse. 
But  by  this  time  the  gay  Baron  d'Azan  had  become 
stout,  the  pillar  of  his  neck  seemed  shorter  because 
it  was  thicker,  and  the  rose  in  his  bold  cheek  had 
the  purplish  tint  of  a  crimson  rambler.  So  he  died 
of  an  apoplexy  during  the  festivities,  and  his  son 
brought  him  back  to  the  Chateau  d'Azan,  and  buried 
him  there  with  due  honor,  and  mourned  for  him  as 
was  fitting.  Thus  Albert,  third  Baron  d'Azan,  en 
tered  upon  his  inheritance. 

It  seemed,  at  first,  to  consist  mainly  of  debts. 
These  were  paid  by  the  sale  of  the  deforested  lands 
and  of  certain  detached  woodlands.  By  the  same 
method,  much  as  he  disliked  it,  he  made  a  modest 
provision  of  money  for  continuing  his  education 
and  beginning  his  travels.  He  knew  that  he  had 
much  to  learn  of  the  world,  and  he  was  especially 
desirous  of  pursuing  his  favorite  study  of  botany, 
which  a  wise  old  priest  at  Louvain  had  taught  him 

43 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

to  love.  So  he  engaged  an  intelligent  and  faithful 
forester  to  care  for  the  trees  and  the  estate,  closed 
the  house,  and  set  forth  on  his  journeys. 

They  led  him  far  and  wide.  In  the  course  of 
them  no  doubt  he  studied  other  things  than  botany. 
It  may  be  that  he  sowed  some  of  the  wild  oats  with 
which  youth  is  endowed;  but  not  in  the  gardens 
of  others;  nor  with  that  cold  self-indulgence  which 
transforms  passionate  impulse  into  sensual  habit. 
He  had  a  permanent  and  regulative  devotion  to 
botanical  research;  and  that  is  a  study  which  seems 
to  promote  modesty,  tranquillity,  and  steadiness  of 
mind  in  its  devotees,  of  whom  the  great  Linnaeus 
is  the  shining  exemplar.  Young  Albert  d'Azan  sat 
at  the  feet  of  the  best  masters  in  Europe  and 
America.  He  crossed  the  western  continent  to 
observe  the  oldest  of  living  things,  the  giant  Sequoias 
of  California.  He  went  to  Australasia  and  the  Dutch 
East  Indies  and  South  America  in  search  of  new  ferns 
and  orchids.  He  investigated  the  effect  of  ocean 
currents  and  of  tribal  migrations  in  the  distribu 
tion  of  trees.  His  botanical  monographs  brought 
him  renown  among  those  who  know,  and  he  was 

44 


A    SANCTUARY    OF    TREES 

elected  a  corresponding  member  of  many  scientific 
societies.  After  twenty  years  of  voyaging  he  re 
turned  to  port  at  Azan,  richly  laden  with  observa 
tion  and  learning,  and  settled  down  among  his  trees 
to  pursue  his  studies  and  write  his  books. 

The  estate,  under  the  forester's  care,  had  im 
proved  a  little  and  promised  a  modest  income.  The 
house,  though  somewhat  dilapidated,  was  easily 
made  livable.  But  the  one  thing  that  was  full  of 
glory  and  splendor,  triumphantly  prosperous,  was 
the  great  avenue  of  beeches.  Their  long,  low  aisle 
of  broad  arches  was  complete.  They  shimmered 
with  a  pearly  mist  of  buds  in  early  spring  and  later 
with  luminous  green  of  tender  leafage.  In  mid 
summer  they  formed  a  wide,  still  stream  of  dark, 
unruffled  verdure;  in  autumn  they  were  trans 
muted  through  glowing  yellow  into  russet  gold; 
in  winter  their  massy  trunks  were  pillars  of  gray 
marble  and  the  fan-tracery  of  their  rounded  branches 
was  delicately  etched  against  the  sky. 

"Look  at  them,'*  the  baron  would  say  to  the 
guests  whom  the  fame  of  his  learning  and  the  charm 
of  his  wide-ranging  conversation  often  brought  to 

45 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

his  house.  "Those  beeches  were  planted  by  my 
grandfather  after  the  battle  of  Wagram,  when  Napo 
leon  whipped  the  Austrians.  After  that  came  the 
Beresina  and  Leipsic  and  Waterloo  and  how  many 
battles  and  wars  of  furious,  perishable  men.  Yet 
the  trees  live  on  peaceably,  they  unfold  their  strength 
in  beauty,  they  have  not  yet  reached  the  summit  of 
their  grandeur.  We  are  all  parvenus  beside  them." 

"If  you  had  to  choose,"  asked  the  great  sculptor 
Constantin  Meunier  one  day,  "would  you  have 
your  house  or  one  of  these  trees  struck  by  light 
ning?" 

"The  house,"  answered  the  botanist  promptly, 
"for  I  could  rebuild  it  in  a  year;  but  to  restore  the 
tree  would  take  three-quarters  of  a  century." 

"Also,"  said  the  sculptor,  with  a  smile,  "you 
might  change  the  style  of  your  house  with  advan 
tage,  but  the  style  of  these  trees  you  could  never 
improve. 

"But  tell  me,"  he  continued,  "is  it  true,  as  they 
say,  that  lightning  never  strikes  a  beech  ?  " 

"It  is  not  entirely  true,"  replied  the  botanist, 
smiling  in  his  turn,  "yet,  like  many  ancient  beliefs, 

46 


A    SANCTUARY    OF    TREES 

it  has  some  truth  in  it.  There  is  something  in  the 
texture  of  the  beech  that  seems  to  resist  electricity 
better  than  other  trees.  It  may  be  the  fatness  of 
the  wood.  Whatever  it  is,  I  am  glad  of  it,  for  it 
gives  my  trees  a  better  chance." 

"Don't  be  too  secure,"  said  the  sculptor,  shaking 
his  head.  "There  are  other  tempests  besides  those 
in  the  clouds.  When  the  next  war  comes  in  western 
Europe  Belgium  will  be  the  battle-field.  Beech- 
wood  is  very  good  to  burn." 

"God  forbid,"  said  the  baron  devoutly.  "We 
have  had  peace  for  a  quarter  of  a  century.  Why 
should  it  not  last?" 

"Ask  the  wise  men  of  the  East,"  replied  the 
sculptor  grimly. 

When  he  was  a  little  past  fifty  the  baron  mar 
ried,  with  steadfast  choice  and  deep  affection,  the 
orphan  daughter  of  a  noble  family  of  Hainault. 
She  was  about  half  his  age;  of  a  tranquil,  cheerful 
temper  and  a  charm  that  depended  less  on  feature 
than  on  expression;  a  lover  of  music,  books,  and  a 
quiet  life.  She  brought  him  a  small  dowry  by  which 
the  chateau  was  restored  to  comfort,  and  bore  him 

47 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

two  children,  a  boy  and  a  girl,  by  whom  it  was  en 
livened  with  natural  gayety.  The  next  twenty 
years  were  the  happiest  that  Albert  d'Azan  and  his 
wife  ever  saw.  The  grand  avenue  of  beeches  be 
came  to  them  the  unconscious  symbol  of  something 
settled  and  serene,  august,  protective,  sacred. 

On  a  brilliant  morning  of  early  April,  1914,  they 
had  stepped  out  together  to  drink  the  air.  The 
beeches  were  in  misty,  silver  bloom  above  them. 
All  around  was  peace  and  gladness. 

"I  want  to  tell  you  a  dream  I  had  last  night,"  he 
said,  "a  strange  dream  about  our  beeches." 

"If  it  was  sad,"  she  answered,  "do  not  let  the 
shadow  of  it  fall  on  the  morning." 

"But  it  was  not  sad.  It  seemed  rather  to  bring 
light  and  comfort.  I  dreamed  that  I  was  dead  and 
you  had  buried  me  at  the  foot  of  the  largest  of  the 
trees." 

"Do  you  call  that  not  sad?"  she  interrupted  re 
proachfully. 

"It  did  not  seem  so.  Wait  a  moment  and  you 
shall  hear  the  way  of  it.  At  first  I  felt  only  a  deep 
quietness  and  repose,  like  one  who  has  been  in  pain 

48 


A    SANCTUARY    OF    TREES 

and  is  very  tired  and  lies  down  in  the  shade  to 
sleep.  Then  I  was  waking  again  and  something 
was  drawing  me  gently  upward.  I  cannot  exactly 
explain  it,  but  it  was  as  if  I  were  passing  through 
the  roots  and  the  trunk  and  the  boughs  of  the  beech- 
tree  toward  the  upper  air.  There  I  saw  the  light 
again  and  heard  the  birds  singing  and  the  wind 
rustling  among  the  leaves.  How  I  saw  and  heard 
I  cannot  tell  you,  for  there  was  no  remembrance  of 
a  body  in  my  dream.  Then  suddenly  my  soul — I 
suppose  it  was  that — stood  before  God  and  He  was 
asking  me:  'How  did  you  come  hither?'  I  an 
swered,  *By  Christ's  way,  by  the  way  of  a  tree.' 
And  He  said  it  was  well,  and  that  my  work  in  heaven 
should  be  the  care  of  the  trees  growing  by  the  river 
of  life,  and  that  sometimes  I  could  go  back  to  visit 
my  trees  on  earth,  if  I  wished.  That  made  me  very 
glad,  for  I  knew  that  so  I  should  see  you  and  our 
children  under  the  beeches.  And  while  I  was  won 
dering  whether  you  would  ever  know  that  I  was 
there,  the  dream  dissolved,  and  I  saw  the  morning 
light  on  the  tree-tops.  What  do  you  think  of  my 
dream  ?  Childish,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

49 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

She  thought  a  little  before  she  answered. 

"It  was  natural  enough,  though  vague.  Of  course 
we  could  not  be  buried  at  the  foot  of  the  beech-tree 
unless  Cardinal  Mercier  would  permit  a  plot  of 
ground  to  be  consecrated  there.  But  come,  it  is 
time  to  go  in  to  breakfast." 

She  seemed  to  dismiss  the  matter  from  her  mind. 
Yet,  as  women  so  often  do,  she  kept  all  these  sayings 
and  pondered  them  in  her  heart. 

The  promise  of  spring  passed  into  the  sultry  heat 
of  summer.  The  storm-cloud  of  the  twentieth  cen 
tury  blackened  over  Europe.  The  wise  men  of 
Berlin  made  mad  by  pride,  devoted  the  world  not 
to  the  Prince  of  Peace  but  to  the  lords  of  war.  In 
the  first  week  of  August  the  fury  of  the  German  in 
vasion  broke  on  Belgium.  No  one  had  dared  to 
dream  the  terrors  of  that  tempest.  It  was  like  a 
return  of  the  Dark  Ages.  Every  home  trembled. 
The  pillars  of  the  tranquil  house  of  Azan  were 
shaken. 

The  daughter  was  away  at  school  in  England, 
and  that  was  an  unmixed  blessing.  The  son  was  a 
lieutenant  in  the  Belgian  army;  and  that  was  right 

50 


A    SANCTUARY    OF    TREES 

and  glorious,  but  it  was  also  a  dreadful  anxiety. 
The  father  and  mother  were  divided  in  mind, 
Whether  to  stay  or  take  flight  with  their  friends. 
At  last  the  father  decided  the  hard  question. 

"It  is  our  duty  to  stay.  We  cannot  fight  for 
our  country,  but  we  can  suffer  with  her.  Our 
daughter  is  in  safety;  our  son's  danger  we  cannot 
and  would  not  prevent.  How  could  we  really  live 
away  from  here,  our  home,  our  trees?  I  went  to 
consult  the  cardinal.  He  stays,  and  he  advises  us 
to  do  so.  He  says  that  will  be  the  best  way  to 
show  our  devotion.  As  Christians  we  must  endure 
the  evil  that  we  cannot  prevent;  but  as  Belgians 
our  hearts  will  never  consent  to  it." 

That  was  their  attitude  as  the  tide  of  blood  and 
tears  drew  nearer  to  them,  surrounded  them,  swept 
beyond  them,  engulfed  the  whole  land.  The  brutal 
massacres  at  Andenne  and  Dinant  were  so  near 
that  the  news  arrived  before  the  spilt  blood  was 
dry.  The  exceeding  great  and  bitter  cry  of  anguish 
came  to  them  from  a  score  of  neighboring  villages, 
from  a  hundred  lonely  farmhouses.  The  old  botan 
ist  withered  and  faded  daily;  his  wife  grew  pale 

51 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

and  gray.     Yet  they  walked  their  via  crucis  together, 
and  kept  their  chosen  course. 

They  fed  the  hungry  and  clothed  the  naked, 
helped  the  fugitives  and  consoled  the  broken-hearted. 
They  counselled  their  poor  neighbors  to  good  order, 
and  dissuaded  the  ignorant  from  the  folly  and  peril 
of  violence.  Toward  the  invading  soldiery  their 
conduct  was  beyond  reproach.  With  no  false  pro 
fessions  of  friendship,  they  fulfilled  the  hard  ser 
vices  which  were  required  of  them.  Their  servants 
had  been  helped  away  at  the  beginning  of  the  trouble 
— all  except  the  old  forester  and  his  wife,  who  re 
fused  to  leave.  With  their  aid  the  house  was  kept 
open  and  many  of  the  conquerors  lodged  there  and 
in  the  outbuildings.  So  good  were  the  quarters 
that  a  departing  Saxon  chalked  on  the  gate-post  the 
dubious  inscription:  "Gute  Leute — nicht  auspliin- 
dern."  Thus  the  captives  at  the  Chateau  d'Azan 
had  a  good  name  even  among  their  enemies.  The 
baron  received  a  military  pass  which  enabled  him 
to  move  quite  freely  about  the  district  on  his  errands 
of  necessity  and  mercy,  and  the  chateau  became  a 
favorite  billet  for  high-born  officers. 

52 


A    SANCTUARY    OF    TREES 

In  the  second  year  of  the  war  an  evil  chance 
brought  two  uninvited  guests  of  very  high  standing 
indeed — that  is  to  say  in  the  social  ring  of  Potsdam. 
Their  names  are  well  known.  Let  us  call  them 
Prince  Barenberg  and  Count  Ludra.  The  first  was 
a  major,  the  second  a  captain.  Their  value  as  war 
riors  in  the  field  had  not  proved  equal  to  their 
prominence  as  noblemen,  so  they  were  given  duty 
in  the  rear. 

They  were  vicious  coxcombs  of  the  first  order. 
Their  uniforms  incased  them  tightly.  Like  wasps 
they  bent  only  at  the  waist.  Their  flat-topped 
caps  were  worn  with  an  aggressive  slant,  their 
swords  jingled  menacingly,  their  hay-colored 
mustaches  spoke  arrogance  in  every  upturned  hair. 
When  they  bowed  it  was  a  mockery;  when  they 
smiled  it  was  a  sneer.  For  the  comfortable  quar 
ters  of  the  Chateau  d'Azan  they  had  a  gross  appre 
ciation,  for  the  enforced  hospitality  of  its  owners 
an  insolent  condescension.  They  took  it  as  their 
due,  and  resented  the  silent  protest  underneath  it. 

"Excellent  wine,  Herr  Baron,"  said  the  prince, 
who,  like  his  comrade,  drank  profusely  of  the  best 

53 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

in  the  cellar.  "Your  Riidesheimer  Berg  '94  is 
kolossal.  Very  friendly  of  you  to  save  it  for  us. 
We  Germans  know  good  wine.  What?" 

"You  have  that  reputation,"  answered  the  baron. 

"And  say,"  added  the  count,  "let  us  have  a 
couple  of  bottles  more,  dear  landlord.  You  can 
put  it  in  the  bill." 

"I  shall  do  so,"  said  the  baron  gravely.  "It 
shall  be  put  in  the  bill  with  other  things." 

"But  why,"  drawled  the  prince,  "does  la  Baronne 
never  favor  us  with  her  company?  Still  very  at 
tractive — musical  probably — here  is  a  piano — want 
good  German  music — console  homesickness." 

"Madame  is  indisposed,"  answered  the  baron 
quietly,  "but  you  may  be  sure  she  regrets  your 
absence  from  home." 

The  officers  looked  at  each  other  with  half-tipsy, 
half-angry  eyes.  They  suspected  a  jest  at  their 
expense,  but  could  not  quite  catch  it. 

"Impudence,"  muttered  the  count,  who  was  the 
sharper  of  the  two  when  sober. 

"No,"  said  the  prince,  "it  is  only  stupidity. 
These  Walloons  have  no  wit." 

54 


A    SANCTUARY    OF    TREES 

"Come,"  he  added,  turning  to  the  baron,  "we 
sing  you  a  good  song  of  fatherland — show  how 
gemuihlich  we  Germans  are.  You  Belgians  have  no 
word  for  that.  What?" 

He  sat  down  to  the  piano  and  pounded  out 
"Deutschland  uber  Alles"  singing  the  air  in  a  raucous 
voice,  while  Ludra  added  a  rumbling  bass. 

"What  do  you  think  of  that?  All  Germans  can 
sing.  Gemuthlich.  What?" 

"You  are  right,"  said  the  baron,  with  downcast 
eyes.  "We  Belgians  have  no  word  for  that.  It  is 
inexpressible — except  in  German.  I  bid  you  good 
night." 

For  nearly  a  fortnight  this  condition  of  affairs 
continued.  The  baron  endured  it  as  best  he  could, 
obeying  scrupulously  the  military  regulations  which 
necessity  laid  upon  him,  and  taking  his  revenge  only 
in  long  thoughts  and  words  of  polite  sarcasm  which 
he  knew  would  not  be  understood.  The  baroness 
worked  hard  at  the  housekeeping,  often  cooking  and 
cleaning  with  her  own  hands,  and  rejoicing  secretly 
with  her  husband  over  the  rare  news  that  came  from 
their  daughter  in  England,  from  their  boy  at  the 

55 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

front  in  West  Flanders.  Sometimes,  when  the  coast 
was  clear,  husband  and  wife  walked  together  under 
the  beech-trees  and  talked  in  low  tones  of  the  time 
when  the  ravenous  beast  should  no  more  go  up  on 
the  land. 

The  two  noble  officers  performed  their  routine 
duties,  found  such  amusement  as  they  could  in 
neighboring  villages  and  towns,  drank  deep  at  night, 
and  taxed  their  ingenuity  to  invent  small  ways  of 
annoying  their  hosts,  for  whom  they  felt  the  con 
temptuous  dislike  of  the  injurer  for  the  injured. 
They  were  careful,  however,  to  keep  their  malice 
within  certain  bounds,  for  they  knew  that  the  baron 
was  in  favor  with  the  commandant  of  the  district. 

One  morning  the  baron  and  his  wife,  looking  from 
their  window  in  a  wing  of  the  house,  saw  with  sur 
prise  and  horror  a  score  or  more  of  German  soldiers 
assembled  beside  the  beech-avenue,  with  axes  and 
saws,  preparing  to  begin  work. 

"What  are  they  going  to  do  there?"  cried  he 
in  dismay,  and  hurried  down  to  the  dining-room, 
where  the  officers  sat  at  breakfast,  giving  orders  to 
an  attentive  corporal. 

56 


A    SANCTUARY    OF    TREES 

"A  thousand  pardons,  Highness,"  interrupted 
the  baron;  "forgive  my  haste.  But  surely  you  are 
not  going  to  cut  down  my  avenue  of  beeches  ?  " 

"Why  not?"  said  the  prince,  swinging  around  in 
his  chair.  "They  are  good  wood." 

"But,  sir,"  stammered  the  baron,  trembling  with 
excitement,  "those  trees — they  are  an  ancient  heri 
tage  of  the  house — planted  by  my  grandfather  a 
century  ago — an  old  possession — spare  them  for 
their  age." 

"You  exaggerate,"  sneered  the  prince.  "They 
are  not  old.  I  have  on  my  hunting  estate  in  Thu- 
ringia  oaks  five  hundred  years  old.  These  trees  of 
yours  are  mere  upstarts.  Why  shouldn't  they  be 
cut?  What?" 

"But  they  are  very  dear  to  us,"  pleaded  the  baron 
earnestly.  "We  all  love  them,  my  wife  and  chil 
dren  and  I.  To  us  they  are  sacred.  It  would  be 
harsh  to  take  them  from  us." 

"Baron,"  said  the  prince,  with  suave  malice, 
"you  miss  the  point.  We  Germans  are  never  harsh. 
But  we  are  practical.  My  soldiers  need  exercise. 
The  camps  need  wood.  Do  you  see  ?  What  ?  " 

57 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

"Certainly,"  answered  the  poor  baron,  humbling 
himself  in  his  devotion  to  his  trees.  "Your  High 
ness  makes  the  point  perfectly  clear — the  need  of 
exercise  and  wood.  But  there  is  plenty  of  good 
timber  in  the  forest  and  the  park — much  easier  to 
cut.  Cannot  your  men  get  their  wood  and  their 
exercise  there,  and  spare  my  dearest  trees?'* 

Ludra  laughed  unpleasantly. 

"You  do  not  yet  understand  us,  dear  landlord. 
We  Germans  are  a  hard-working  people,  not  like 
the  lazy  Belgians.  The  harder  the  work  the  better 
we  like  it.  The  soldiers  will  have  a  fine  time  chop 
ping  down  your  tough  beeches." 

The  slender  old  man  drew  himself  up,  his  eyes 
flashed,  he  was  driven  to  bay. 

"You  shall  not  do  this,"  he  cried.  "It  is  an 
outrage,  a  sacrilege.  I  shall  appeal  to  the  com 
mandant.  He  will  protect  my  rights." 

The  pfficers  looked  at  each  other.  Deaf  to  pity, 
they  had  keen  ears  for  danger.  A  reproof,  perhaps 
a  punishment  from  their  superior  would  be  most 
unpleasant.  They  hesitated  to  face  it.  But  they 
were  too  obstinate  to  give  up  their  malicious  design 
altogether  with  a  good  grace. 

58 


A    SANCTUARY    OF    TREES 

"Military  necessity,"  growled  the  prince,  "knows 
no  private  rights.  I  advise  you,  baron,  not  to  ap 
peal  to  the  commandant.  It  will  be  useless,  per 
haps  harmful." 

"Here,  you,"  he  said  gruffly,  turning  to  the  cor 
poral,  "carry  out  my  orders.  Cut  the  two  marked 
beeches  by  the  gate.  Then  take  your  men  into  the 
park  and  cut  the  biggest  trees  there.  Report  for 
further  orders  to-morrow  morning." 

The  wooden-faced  giant  saluted,  swung  on  his 
heels,  and  marched  stiffly  out.  The  baron  followed 
him  quickly. 

He  knew  that  entreaties  would  be  wasted  on  the 
corporal.  How  to  get  to  the  commandant,  that  was 
the  question  ?  He  would  not  be  allowed  to  use  the 
telephone  which  was  in  the  dining-room,  nor  the 
automobile  which  belonged  to  the  officers;  nor  one 
of  their  horses  which  were  in  his  stable.  The  only 
other  beast  left  there  was  a  small  and  very  antique 
donkey  which  the  children  used  to  drive.  In  a 
dilapidated  go-cart,  drawn  by  this  pattering  nag, 
the  baron  made  such  haste  as  he  could  along 
twelve  miles  of  stony  road  to  the  district  head 
quarters.  There  he  told  his  story  simply  to  the 

59 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

commandant  and  begged  protection  for  his  beloved 
trees. 

The  old  general  was  of  a  different  type  from  the 
fire-eating  dandies  who  played  the  master  at  Azan. 
He  listened  courteously  and  gravely.  There  was  a 
picture  in  his  mind  of  the  old  timbered  house  in 
the  Hohe  Venn,  where  he  had  spent  four  years  in 
retirement  before  the  war  called  him  back  to  the 
colors.  He  thought  of  the  tall  lindens  and  the 
spreading  chestnuts  around  it  and  imagined  how 
he  should  feel  if  he  saw  them  falling  under  the  axe. 
Then  he  said  to  his  petitioner: 

"You  have  acted  quite  correctly,  Monsieur  le 
Baron,  in  bringing  this  matter  quietly  to  my  atten 
tion.  There  is  no  military  necessity  for  the  destruc 
tion  of  your  fine  trees.  I  shall  put  a  stop  to  it  at 


once." 


He  called  his  aide-de-camp  and  gave  some  in 
structions  in  a  low  tone  of  voice.  When  the  aide 
came  back  from  the  telephone  and  reported,  the 
general  frowned. 

"It  is  unheard  of,'*  he  muttered,  half  to  himself, 
"the  way  those  titled  young  fools  go  beyond  their 
orders." 

60 


A    SANCTUARY    OF    TREES 

Then  he  turned  to  his  visitor. 

"I  am  very  sorry,  Monsieur  le  Baron,  but  two  of 
your  beeches  have  already  fallen.  It  cannot  be 
helped  now.  But  there  shall  be  no  more  of  it,  I 
promise  you.  Those  young  officers  are — they  are — 
let  us  call  them  overzealous.  I  will  transfer  them 
to  another  post  to-morrow.  The  German  com 
mand  appreciates  the  correct  conduct  of  you  and 
Madame  la  Baronne.  Is  there  anything  more  that 
I  can  do  for  you  ?  " 

"I  thank  your  Excellency  sincerely,"  replied  the 
baron.  Then  he  hesitated  a  moment,  as  if  to  weigh 
his  words.  "No,  Herr  General,  I  believe  there  is 
nothing  more — in  which  you  can  help  me." 

The  old  soldier's  eyelids  flickered  for  an  instant. 
"Then  I  bid  you  a  very  good  day,"  he  said,  bowing. 

The  baron  hurried  home,  to  share  the  big  good 
news  with  his  wife.  The  little  bad  news  she  knew 
already.  Together  they  grieved  over  the  two  fallen 
trees  and  rejoiced  under  the  golden  shadow  of  their 
untouched  companions.  The  officers  had  called  for 
wine,  and  more  wine,  and  yet  more  wine,  and  were 
drinking  deep  and  singing  loud  in  the  dining-room. 

In  the  morning  came  an  orderly  with  a  despatch 
61 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

from  headquarters,  ordering  the  prince  and  the 
count  to  duty  in  a  dirty  village  of  the  coal  region. 
Their  baggage  was  packed  into  the  automobile,  and 
they  mounted  their  horses  and  went  away  in  a  rage. 

"You  will  be  sorry  for  this,  dumbhead,"  growled 
the  prince,  scowling  fiercely.  "Yes,"  added  Ludra, 
with  a  hateful  grin,  "we  shall  meet  again,  dear 
landlord,  and  you  will  be  sorry." 

Their  host  bowed  and  said  nothing. 

Some  weeks  later  the  princely  automobile  came 
to  the  door  of  the  chateau.  The  forester  brought 
up  word  that  the  Prince  Barenberg  and  the  Count 
Ludra  were  below  with  a  message  from  headquarters; 
the  commandant  wished  the  baron  to  come  there 
immediately;  the  automobile  was  sent  to  bring  him. 
He  made  ready  to  go.  His  wife  and  his  servant 
tried  hard  to  dissuade  him :  it  was  late,  almost  dark, 
and  very  cold — not  likely  the  commandant  had  sent 
for  him — it  might  be  all  a  trick  of  those  officers — 
they  were  hateful  men — they  would  play  some  cruel 
prank  for  revenge.  But  the  old  man  was  obstinate 
in  his  resolve;  he  must  do  what  was  required  of 
him,  he  must  not  even  run  the  risk  of  slighting  the 

62 


A    SANCTUARY    OF    TREES 

commandant's  wishes;  after  all,  no  great  harm 
could  come  to  him. 

When  he  reached  the  steps  he  saw  the  count  in 
the  front  seat,  beside  the  chauffeur,  grinning;  and 
the  prince's  harsh  voice,  made  soft  as  possible, 
called  from  the  shadowy  interior  of  the  car: 

"Come  in,  baron.  The  general  has  sent  for  you 
in  a  hurry.  We  will  take  you  like  lightning.  How 
fine  your  beeches  look  against  the  sky0  What  ?  " 

The  old  man  stepped  into  the  dusky  car.  It 
rolled  down  the  long  aisle,  between  the  smooth 
gray  columns,  beneath  the  fan-tracery  of  the  low 
arches,  out  on  to  the  stony  highway.  Thus  the 
tree-lover  was  taken  from  his  sanctuary. 

He  did  not  return  the  next  day,  nor  the  day  after. 
His  wife,  tortured  by  anxiety,  went  to  the  district 
headquarters.  The  commandant  was  away.  The 
aide  could  not  enlighten  her.  There  had  been  no 
message  sent  to  the  baron — that  was  certain.  Major 
Barenberg  and  Captain  Ludra  had  been  transferred 
to  another  command.  Unfortunately,  nothing  could 
be  done  except  to  report  the  case. 

The  brave  woman  was  not  broken  by  her  anguish, 
63 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

but  raised  to  the  height  of  heroic  devotion.  She 
dedicated  herself  to  the  search  for  her  husband. 
The  faithful  forester,  convinced  that  his  master  had 
been  killed,  was  like  a  slow,  sure  bloodhound  on 
the  track  of  the  murderers.  He  got  a  trace  of  them 
in  a  neighboring  village,  where  their  car  had  been 
seen  to  pass  at  dusk  on  the  fatal  day.  The  officers 
were  in  it,  but  not  the  baron.  The  forester  got  a 
stronger  scent  of  them  in  a  wine-house,  where  their 
chauffeur  had  babbled  mysteriously  on  the  follow 
ing  day.  The  old  woodsman  followed  the  trail 
with  inexhaustible  patience. 

"I  shall  bring  the  master's  body  home,"  he  said 
to  his  mistress,  "and  God  will  use  me  to  avenge  his 
murder." 

A  few  weeks  later  he  found  his  master's  corpse 
hidden  in  a  hollow  on  the  edge  of  the  forest,  half- 
covered  with  broken  branches,  rotting  leaves,  and 
melting  snow.  There  were  three  bullets  in  the 
body.  They  had  been  fired  at  close  range. 

The  widow's  heart,  passing  from  the  torture  of 
uncertainty  to  the  calm  of  settled  grief,  had  still  a 
sacred  duty  to  live  for.  She  had  not  forgotten  her 

64 


A    SANCTUARY    OF    TREES 

husband's  dream.  She  went  to  the  cardinal-arch 
bishop  to  beg  the  consecration  of  a  little  burial-plot 
at  the  foot  of  the  greatest  of  the  beeches  of  Azan, 
That  wise  and  brave  prince  of  the  church  consented 
with  words  of  tender  consolation,  and  promised  his 
aid  in  the  pursuit  of  the  criminals. 

"Eminence,"  she  said,  weeping,  "you  are  very 
good  to  me.  God  will  reward  you.  He  is  just. 
He  will  repay.  But  my  heart's  desire  is  to  follow 
my  husband's  dream." 

So  the  body  of  the  old  botanist  was  brought  back 
to  the  shadow  of  the  great  beech-trees,  and  was 
buried  there,  like  the  bones  of  a  martyr,  within  the 
sanctuary. 

Is  this  the  end  of  the  story? 

Who  can  say  ? 

It  is  written  also,  among  the  records  of  Belgium, 
that  the  faithful  forester  disappeared  mysteriously 
a  few  weeks  later.  His  body  was  found  in  the  forest 
and  laid  near  his  master. 

Another  record  tells  of  the  trial  of  Prince  Baren- 
berg  and  Count  Ludra  before  a  court  martial.  The 
count  was  sentenced  to  ten  years  of  labor  on  his  own 
65 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

estate.  The  death-sentence  of  the  prince  was  com 
muted  to  imprisonment  in  some  unnamed  place. 
So  far  the  story  of  German  justice. 

But  of  the  other  kind  of  justice — the  poetic,  the 
Divine — the  record  is  not  yet  complete. 

I  know  only  that  there  is  a  fatherless  girl  working 
and  praying  in  a  hospital  in  England,  and  a  father 
less  boy  fighting  and  praying  in  the  muddy  trenches 
near  Ypres,  and  a  lonely  woman  walking  and  pray 
ing  under  certain  great  beech-trees  at  the  Chateau 
d'Azan.  The  burden  of  their  prayer  is  the  same. 
Night  and  day  it  rises  to  Him  who  will  judge  the 
world  in  righteousness  and  before  whose  eyes  the 
wicked  shall  not  stand. 

September,  1918. 


66 


THE    KING'S    HIGH    WA.Y 


THE    KING'S    HIGH    WAY 

IN  the  last  remnant  of  Belgium,  a  corner  yet  un- 
conquered  by  the  German  horde,  I  saw  a  tall  young 
man  walking  among  the  dunes,  between  the  sodden 
lowland  and  the  tumbling  sea. 

The  hills  where  he  trod  were  of  sand  heaped  high 
by  the  western  winds;  and  the  growth  over  them 
was  wire-grass  and  thistles,  bayberry  and  golden 
broom  and  stunted  pine,  with  many  humble  wild 
flowers — things  of  no  use,  yet  beautiful. 

The  sky  above  was  gray;  the  northern  sea  was 
gray;  the  southern  fields  were  hazy  gray  over  green; 
the  smoke  of  shells  bursting  in  the  air  was  gray. 
Gray  was  the  skeleton  of  the  ruined  city  in  the  dis 
tance;  gray  were  the  shattered  spires  and  walls  of  a 
dozen  hamlets  on  the  horizon;  gray,  the  eyes  of  the 
young  man  who  walked  in  faded  blue  uniform,  in 
the  remnant  of  Belgium.  But  there  was  an  in 
domitable  light  in  his  eyes,  by  which  I  knew  that 
he  was  a  King. 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

"Sir,"  I  said,  "I  am  sure  that  you  are  his 
Majesty,  the  King  of  Belgium." 

He  bowed,  and  a  pleasant  smile  relaxed  his  tired 
face. 

"Pardon,  monsieur,"  he  answered,  "but  you 
make  the  usual  mistake  in  my  title.  If  I  were  only 
'the  King  of  Belgium,'  you  see,  I  should  have  but  a 
poor  kingdom  now — only  this  narrow  strip  of  earth, 
perhaps  four  hundred  square  miles  of  debris,  just 
a  'pou  sto,9  a  place  to  stand,  enough  to  fight  on,  and 
if  need  be  to  die  in." 

His  hand  swept  around  the  half-circle  of  dull 
landscape  visible  southward  from  the  top  of  the 
loftiest  dune,  the  Hooge  Blikker.  It  was  a  land  of 
slow-winding  streams  and  straight  canals  and  flat 
fields,  with  here  and  there  a  clump  of  woods  or  a 
slight  rise  of  ground,  but  for  the  most  part  level  and 
monotonous,  a  checker-board  landscape — stretching 
away  until  the  eyes  rested  on  the  low  hills  beyond 
Ypres.  Now  all  the  placid  charm  of  Flemish  fer 
tility  was  gone  from  the  land — it  was  scarred  and 
marred  and  pitted.  The  shells  and  mines  had  torn 
holes  in  it;  the  trenches  and  barbed- wire  entangle- 

70 


THE    KING'S    HIGH    WAY 

ments  spread  over  it  like  a  network  of  scars  and 
welts;  the  trees  were  smashed  into  kindling-wood; 
the  farmhouses  were  heaps  of  charred  bricks;  the 
shattered  villages  were  like  mouths  full  of  broken 
teeth.  As  the  King  looked  round  at  all  this,  his 
face  darkened  and  the  slight  droop  of  his  shoulders 
grew  more  marked. 

"But,  no,"  he  said,  turning  to  me  again,  "that 
is  not  my  kingdom.  My  real  title,  monsieur,  is 
King  of  the  Belgians.  It  was  for  their  honor,  for 
their  liberty,  that  I  was  willing  to  lose  my  land  and 
risk  my  crown.  While  they  live  and  hold  true,  I 
stand  fast." 

Then  ran  swiftly  through  me  the  thought  of  how 
the  little  Belgian  army  had  fought,  how  the  Bel 
gian  people  had  suffered,  rather  than  surrender  the 
independence  of  their  country  to  the  barbarians. 
The  German  cannonade  was  roaring  along  the  Yser 
a  few  miles  away;  the  air  trembled  with  the  over 
load  of  sound;  but  between  the  peals  of  thunder 
I  could  hear  the  brave  song  of  the  skylark  climbing 
his  silver  stairway  of  music,  undismayed,  hopeful, 
unconquerable.  I  remembered  how  the  word  of 

71 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

this  quiet  man  beside  whom  I  stood  had  been  the 
inspiration  and  encouragement  of  his  people  through 
the  fierce  conflict,  the  long  agony:  "/  have  faith 
in  our  destiny;  a  nation  which  defends  itself  does 
not  perish;  God  will  be  with  us  in  that  just  cause." 

"Sir,"  I  said,  "you  have  a  glorious  kingdom 
which  shall  never  be  taken  away.  But  as  for  your 
land,  the  fates  have  been  against  you.  How  will 
you  ever  get  back  to  it?  The  Germans  are  strong 
as  iron  and  they  bar  the  way.  Will  you  make  a 
peace  with  them  and  take  what  they  have  so  often 
offered  you?" 

"Never,"  he  answered  calmly;  "that  is  not  the 
way  home,  it  is  the  way  to  dishonor.  When  God 
brings  me  back,  my  army  and  my  Queen  are  going 
with  me  to  liberate  our  people.  There  is  only  one 
way  that  leads  there — the  King's  high  way.  Look, 
monsieur,  you  can  see  the  beginning  of  it  down 
there.  I  hope  you  wish  me  well  on  that  road,  for 
I  shall  never  take  another." 

So  he  bade  me  good  afternoon  very  courteously 
and  walked  away  among  the  dunes  to  his  little  cot 
tage  at  La  Panne. 


THE    KING'S    HIGH    WAY 

Looking  down  through  the  light  haze  of  evening 
I  saw  a  strip  of  the  straight  white  road  leading  east 
ward  across  the  level  land.  At  the  beginning  of  it 
there  was  a  broken  bridge;  in  places  it  seemed  torn 
up  by  shells;  it  disappeared  in  the  violet  dusk. 
But  as  I  looked  a  vision  came. 

The  bridge  is  restored,  the  road  mended  and 
built  up,  and  on  that  highway  rides  the  King  in  his 
faded  uniform  with  the  Queen  in  white  beside  him. 
At  their  approach  ruined  villages  rejoice  aloud  and 
ancient  towns  break  forth  into  singing. 

In  Bruges  the  royal  comrades  stand  beside  the  gi 
gantic  monument  in  the  centre  of  the  Great  Market, 
and  above  the  shouting  of  the  multitude  the  music  of 
the  old  belfry  floats  unheard.  Ghent  and  Antwerp 
have  put  on  their  glad  raiment,  and  in  their  crooked 
streets  and  crowded  squares  joy  flows  like  a  river 
singing  as  it  goes.  Into  Brussels  I  see  this  man 
and  woman  ride  through  a  welcome  that  rises  around 
them  like  the  voice  of  many  waters — the  welcome 
of  those  who  have  waited  and  suffered,  the  welcome 
of  those  to  whom  liberty  and  honor  were  more  dear 
than  life.  In  the  Grande  Place,  the  antique,  carven, 

73 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

gabled  houses  are  gay  with  fluttering  banners; 
the  people  delivered  from  the  cruel  invader  sing 
lustily  the  Marseillaise  and  the  old  songs  of  Bel 
gium. 

In  the  midst,  Ajbe^_juo«L,JEJizajbetli  sit  quietly 
upon  their  horses.  They  have  come  home.  '  Not 
by  the  low  road  of  cowardly  surrender;  not  by  the 
crooked  road  of  compromise  and  falsehood;  not 
by  the  soft  road  of  ease  and  self-indulgence;  but 
by  the  straight  road  of  faith  and  courage  and  self- 
sacrifice — the  King's  High  Way. 


HALF^TOLD    TALES 

THE   TRAITOR  IN   THE   HOUSE 

JUSTICE   OF  THE   ELEMENTS 

ASHES  OP  VENGEANCE 


THE    TRAITOR    IN    THE    HOUSE 

THE  Guest,  who  came  from  beyond  the  lake,  had 
lived  in  the  house  for  years  and  had  the  freedom 
of  it,  so  that  he  had  become  quite  like  a  member 
of  the  family.  He  was  friendly  treated  and  well 
lodged.  Indeed,  some  thought  he  had  the  best 
room  of  all,  for  though  it  was  in  the  wing,  it  was 
spacious  and  well  warmed,  and  had  a  side  door,  so 
that  he  could  go  in  and  out  freely  by  day  or  night. 

It  must  be  said  that  he  had  earned  his  living  on 
the  place,  being  industrious  and  useful,  a  very  handy 
man  about  the  house;  and  the  children  had  a  liking 
for  him  because  he  sang  merry  songs  and  told  beau 
tiful  fairy-tales. 

So  he  was  all  the  more  surprised  and  aggrieved 
when  the  Master  of  the  house  said  to  him  one  night, 
as  they  sat  late  by  the  fire: 

"I  suspect  you." 

77 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

"But  of  what?"  cried  the  Guest. 

"Of  caring  more  for  the  house  that  you  came 
from  than  for  the  house  that  you  live  in." 

"But  you  know  I  was  at  home  there  once,"^e»d- 
the  Guests  "  would  you  have  me  forget  that  ?    Surely 
you  will  not  deny  me  the  freedom  of  my  thoughts 
and  memories  and  fond  feelings.    Would  you  make 
me  less  than  a  man?" 

"No,"  said-the-Maater,  "but  I  will  ask  you  to 
choose  between  your  old  home  and  your  new  home 
now.  The  house  in  which  you  lived  formerly  is 
become  our  enemy — a  nest  of  brigands  and  bloody 
men.  They  have  killed  a  child  of  ours  on  the  high 
way.  They  threaten  us  to-night  with  an  attack 
in  force.  Tell  me  plainly  where  you  stand." 

The  Guest  looked  down  his  nose  toward  the 
smouldering  embers  of  the  fire.  He  knocked  out 
the  dottle  of  his  pipe  on  one  of  the  andirons.  Two 
fat  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks;  he  was  very  senti 
mental. 

"I  am  with  you,"  he  said. 

"Good,"  said  the  Master,  "now  let  us  make  the 
house  fast!" 

78 


'I  will  ask  you  to  choose  between  your  old  home  and  your  new  home  now.' 


THE    TRAITOR    IN    THE    HOUSE 

So  they  closed  and  barred  the  shutters  and  locked 
and  bolted  the  front  door. 

Then  they  lighted  their  bedroom  candles  and 
bade  each  other  good  night. 

But  as  the  Guest  went  along  his  dim  corridor, 
the  Master  turned  and  followed  him  very  softly 
on  tiptoe,  watching. 

Outside  the  house,  in  the  darkness,  there  was  a 
sound  of  many  shuffling  feet  and  whispering  voices. 

When  the  Guest  came  to  the  side  door  he  tried 
the  latch,  to  see  that  it  was  working  freely.  He 
moved  the  bolt,  not  forward  into  its  socket,  but 
backward  so  that  it  should  be  no  hindrance.  In 
the  window  beside  the  doorway  he  set  his  candle. 
So  the  house  was  ready  for  late-comers. 

Then  the  Guest  sighed  a  little.  "They  are  my 
old  friends,"  he  murmured,  "my  dear  old  friends! 
I  could  not  leave  them  out  in  the  cold.  I  am  not 
responsible  for  what  they  do.  Only  I  must  my 
old  affection  prove."  So  he  sighed  again  and  turned 
softly  to  his  bed. 

But  as  he  turned  the  Master  stood  before  him 
and  took  him  by  the  throat. 

79 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

"Traitor!"  he  cried.  "You  would  betray  the 
innocent.  Already  your  soul  is  stained  with  my 
sleeping  children's  blood."  And  with  his  hands 
he  choked  the  false  Guest  to  death. 

Then  he  shot  the  bolt  of  the  side  door,  and  barred 
the  window,  and  called  the  servants,  and  made 
ready  to  defend  the  house. 

Great  was  the  fighting  that  night.  In  the  morn 
ing,  when  the  robbers  were  driven  off,  the  false 
Guest  was  buried,  outside  the  garden,  in  an  un 
marked  grave. 

February  2,  1918. 


80 


JUSTICE    OF    THE    ELEMENTS 

SO  the  Criminal  with  a  Crown  came  to  the  end 
of  his  resources.  He  had  told  his  last  lie,  but  not 
even  his  servants  would  believe  it.  He  had  made 
his  last  threat,  but  no  living  soul  feared  it.  He  had 
put  forth  his  last  stroke  of  violence  and  cruelty, 
but  it  fell  short. 

When  he  saw  his  own  image  reflected  in  the  eyes 
of  men,  and  knew  what  he  had  done  to  the  world 
and  what  had  come  of  his  evil  design,  he  was  afraid, 
and  cried,  "Let  the  Earth  swallow  me!"  And  the 
Earth  opened,  and  swallowed  him. 

But  so  great  was  the  harm  that  he  had  wrought 
upon  the  Earth,  and  so  deeply  had  he  drenched  it 
with  blood,  that  it  could  not  contain  him.  So  the 
Earth  opened  again,  and  spewed  him  forth. 

Then  he  cried,  "Let  the  Sea  hide  me !"  And  the 
waves  rolled  over  his  head. 

But  the  Sea,  whereon  he  had  wrought  iniquity, 
and  filled  the  depths  thereof  with  the  bones  of  the 
innocent,  could  not  endure  him  and  threw  him  up 
on  the  shore  as  refuse. 

81 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

Then  he  cried,  "Let  the  Air  carry  me  away!" 
And  the  strong  winds  blew,  and  lifted  him  up  so 
that  he  felt  exalted. 

But  the  pure  Air,  wherein  he  had  let  loose  the 
vultures  of  hate,  hopping  death  upon  helpless 
women  and  harmless  babes,  found  the  burden  and 
the  stench  of  him  intolerable,  and  let  him  fall. 

And  as  he  was  falling  he  cried,  "Let  the  Fire 
give  me  a  refuge !"  So  the  Fire,  wherewith  he  had 
consumed  the  homes  of  men,  rejoiced;  and  the 
flames  which  he  had  compelled  to  do  his  will  in 
wickedness  leaped  up  as  he  drew  near. 

"Welcome,  old  master!"  roared  the  Fire.  "Be 
my  slave ! " 

Then  he  perceived  that  there  was  no  hope  for 
him  in  the  justice  of  the  elements.  And  he  said, 
"I  will  seek  mercy  of  Him  against  whom  I  have 
most  offended." 

So  he  fled  to  the  foot  of  the  Great  White  Throne. 
And  as  he  kneeled  there,  broken  and  abased,  the 
world  was  silent,  waiting  for  the  sentence  of  the 
Judge  of  All. 

August,  1918. 

82 


ASHES   OF    VENGEANCE 
I 

DUN  was  a  hard  little  city,  proud  and  harsh;  but 
impregnable  because  it  was  built  upon  a  high  rock. 
The  host  of  the  Visigoths  had  besieged  it  for  months 
in  vain.  Then  came  a  fugitive  from  the  city,  at 
midnight,  to  the  tent  of  Alaric,  the  Chief  of  the 
besiegers. 

The  man  was  haggard  and  torn.  His  eyes  were 
wild,  his  hands  trembling.  The  Chief  held  and 
steadied  him  with  a  look. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  asked.  "Your  name,  the 
purpose  that  brings  you  here?" 

"My  name,"  said  the  man,  "is  the  Avenger. 
For  thirty  years  I  have  lived  in  Dun,  and  the  people 
have  been  unjust  and  cruel  to  me.  They  persecuted 
my  family,  because  they  hated  me.  My  wife  died 
of  a  broken  heart,  my  children  of  starvation.  I 
have  just  escaped  from  the  prison  of  Dun,  and  come 

83 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

to  tell  you  how  the  city  may  be  taken.  There  is 
a  secret  pathway,  a  hidden  entrance.  I  know  it 
and  can  reveal  it  to  you." 

"Good,"  said  the  Chief,  measuring  the  man  with 
tranquil  eyes,  "but  what  is  your  price?" 

"Vengeance,"  said  the  man,  "I  ask  only  the 
right  to  revenge  my  sufferings  upon  those  who 
have  inflicted  them,  when  you  have  taken  the 
city." 

Alaric  bent  his  head  and  was  silent  for  a  moment. 
"It  is  a  fair  price,"  he  said,  "and  I  will  pay  it.  Tell 
me  the  way  to  take  the  city,  and  I  will  leave  at  your 
command  a  troop  of  soldiers  sufficient  to  work  your 
will  on  it  afterward." 

II 

THE  trumpet  sounded  the  capture  of  the  city 
in  the  morning.  The  Avenger,  waking  late  from 
his  troubled  sleep,  led  his  soldiers  through  the  open 
gate. 

It  was  like  a  city  of  the  dead,  and  the  bodies  of 
those  who  had  been  killed  in  the  last  defense,  lay 
where  they  had  fallen.  Empty  and  silent  were  the 

84 


ASHES    OF    VENGEANCE 

streets  where  he  had  so  often  walked  in  humiliation. 
Gone  were  the  familiar  faces  that  had  frowned  on 
him  and  mocked  him.  The  houses  at  whose  doors 
he  had  often  knocked  were  vacant.  His  wrath  sank 
within  him,  and  the  arrow  of  solitude  pierced  him 
to  the  heart. 

Then  he  came  to  the  belfry,  and  there  was  the 
bell-ringer,  one  of  the  worst  of  his  ancient  perse 
cutors,  standing  at  the  entrance  of  the  tower. 

"Why  are  you  here?"  said  the  Avenger. 

"By  the  orders  of  King  Alaric,"  answered  the 
bell-ringer,  "to  ring  the  bells  when  peace  comes  to 
the  city." 

"Ring  now,"  said  the  Avenger,  "ring  now!" 

Then,  at  the  sound  of  the  bells,  the  people  who 
had  concealed  themselves  at  Alaric's  command 
came  trooping  forth  from  the  cellars  and  caves 
where  they  had  been  hiding, — old  men  and  women 
and  children,  a  motley  throng  of  sufferers. 

The  Avenger  looked  at  them  and  the  tears  ran 
down  his  cheeks,  because  he  remembered. 

"Listen,"  he  said,  "don't  be  afraid.  These  sol 
diers  are  going  on  to  join  their  army.  You  have 
85 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

done  me  great  wrong.     But  the  fire  of  hatred  is 
burnt  out,  and  in  the  ashes  of  vengeance  we  are 
going  to  plant  the  seeds  of  peace." 
December,  1918. 


86 


THE  BROKEN  SOLDIER  AND 
THE    MAID    OF    FRANCE 


THE    BROKEN    SOLDIER   AND    THE 
MAID    OF    FRANCE 


THE  MEETING  AT  THE   SPRING 

ALONG  the  old  Roman  road  that  crosses  the 
rolling  hills  from  the  upper  waters  of  the  Marne  to 
the  Meuse  a  soldier  of  France  was  passing  in  the 
night. 

In  the  broader  pools  of  summer  moonlight  he 
showed  as  a  hale  and  husky  fellow  of  about  thirty 
years,  with  dark  hair  and  eyes  and  a  handsome, 
downcast  face.  His  uniform  was  faded  and  dusty; 
not  a  trace  of  the  horizon  blue  was  left,  only  a  gray 
shadow.  He  had  no  knapsack  on  his  back,  no  gun 
on  his  shoulder.  Wearily  and  doggedly  he  plodded 
his  way,  without  eyes  for  the  veiled  beauty  of  the 
sleeping  country.  The  quick,  firm  military  step 
was  gone.  He  trudged  like  a  tramp,  choosing  al 
ways  the  darker  side  of  the  road. 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

He  was  a  figure  of  flight,  a  broken  soldier. 

Presently  the  road  led  him  into  a  thick  forest  of 
oaks  and  beeches,  and  so  to  the  crest  of  a  hill  over 
looking  a  long  open  valley  with  wooded  heights  be 
yond.  Below  him  was  the  pointed  spire  of  some 
temple  or  shrine,  lying  at  the  edge  of  the  wood, 
with  no  houses  near  it.  Farther  down  he  could 
see  a  cluster  of  white  houses  with  the  tower  of  a 
church  in  the  centre.  Other  villages  were  dimly 
visible  up  and  down  the  valley  on  either  slope. 
The  cattle  were  lowing  from  the  barnyards.  The 
cocks  crowed  for  the  dawn.  Already  the  moon  had 
sunk  behind  the  western  trees.  But  the  valley  was 
still  bathed  in  its  misty,  vanishing  light.  Over  the 
eastern  ridge  the  gray  glimmer  of  the  little  day 
was  rising,  faintly  tinged  with  rose.  It  was  time 
for  the  broken  soldier  to  seek  his  covert  and  rest 
till  night  returned. 

So  he  stepped  aside  from  the  road  and  found  a 
little  dell  thick  with  underwoods,  and  in  it  a  clear 
spring  gurgling  among  the  ferns  and  mosses.  Around 
the  opening  grew  wild  gooseberries  and  golden 
broom  and  a  few  tall  spires  of  purple  foxglove. 

90 


THE    BROKEN    SOLDIER 

He  drew  off  his  dusty  boots  and  socks  and  bathed 
his  feet  in  a  small  pool,  drying  them  with  fern 
leaves.  Then  he  took  a  slice  of  bread  and  a  piece 
of  cheese  from  his  pocket  and  made  his  breakfast. 
Going  to  the  edge  of  the  thicket,  he  parted  the 
branches  and  peered  out  over  the  vale. 

Its  eaves  sloped  gently  to  the  level  floor  where  the 
river  loitered  in  loops  and  curves.  The  sun  was 
just  topping  the  eastern  hills;  the  heads  of  the  trees 
were  dark  against  a  primrose  sky. 

In  the  fields  the  hay  had  been  cut  and  gathered. 
The  aftermath  was  already  greening  the  moist 
places.  Cattle  and  sheep  sauntered  out  to  pasture. 
A  thin  silvery  mist  floated  here  and  there,  spread 
ing  in  broad  sheets  over  the  wet  ground  and  shred 
ding  into  filmy  scarves  and  ribbons  as  the  breeze 
caught  it  among  the  pollard  willows  and  poplars 
on  the  border  of  the  stream.  Far  away  the  water 
glittered  where  the  river  made  a  sudden  bend  or  a 
long  smooth  reach.  It  was  like  the  flashing  of 
distant  shields.  Overhead  a  few  white  clouds 
climbed  up  from  the  north.  The  rolling  ridges,  one 
after  another,  enfolded  the  valley  as  far  as  eye  could 

91 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

see;  dark  green  set  in  pale  green,  with  here  and 
there  an  arm  of  forest  running  down  on  a  sharp 
promontory  to  meet  and  turn  the  meandering 
stream. 

"It  must  be  the  valley  of  the  Meuse,"  said  the 
soldier.  "My  faith,  but  France  is  beautiful  and 
tranquil  here ! " 

The  northerly  wind  was  rising.  The  clouds 
climbed  more  swiftly.  The  poplars  shimmered,  the 
willows  glistened,  the  veils  of  mist  vanished.  From 
very  far  away  there  came  a  rumbling  thunder, 
heavy,  insistent,  continuous,  punctuated  with  louder 
crashes. 

"It  is  the  guns,"  muttered  the  soldier,  shivering. 
"It  is  the  guns  around  Verdun!  Those  damned 
Boches!" 

He  turned  back  into  the  thicket  and  dropped 
among  the  ferns  beside  the  spring.  Stretching  him 
self  with  a  gesture  of  abandon,  he  pillowed  his  face 
on  his  crossed  arms  to  sleep. 

A  rustling  in  the  bushes  roused  him.  He  sprang 
to  his  feet  quickly.  It  was  a  priest,  clad  in  a  dusty 
cassock,  his  long  black  beard  streaked  with  gray. 

92 


THE    BROKEN    SOLDIER 

He  came  slowly  treading  up  beside  the  trickling 
rivulet,  carrying  a  bag  on  a  stick  over  his  shoul 
der. 

"Good  morning,  my  son,"  he  said.  "You  have 
chosen  a  pleasant  spot  to  rest." 

The  soldier,  startled,  but  not  forgetting  his  man 
ners  learned  from  boyhood,  stood  up  and  lifted  his 
hand  to  take  off  his  cap.  It  was  already  lying  on 
the  ground.  "  Good  morning,  Father,"  he  answered, 
"I  did  not  choose  the  place,  but  stumbled  on  it  by 
chance.  It  is  pleasant  enough,  for  I  am  very  tired 
and  have  need  of  sleep." 

"No  doubt,"  said  the  priest.  "I  can  see  that 
you  look  weary,  and  I  beg  you  to  pardon  me  if  I 
have  interrupted  your  repose.  But  why  do  you 
say  you  came  here  'by  chance* ?  If  you  are  a  good 
Christian  you  know  that  nothing  is  by  chance. 
All  is  ordered  and  designed  by  Providence." 

"So  they  told  me  in  church  long  ago,"  said  the 
soldier  coldly;  "but  now  it  does  not  seem  so  true 
— at  least  not  with  me." 

The  first  feeling  of  friendliness  and  respect  into 
which  he  had  been  surprised  was  passing.  He  had 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

fallen  back  into  the  mood  of  his  journey — mistrust, 
secrecy,  resentment. 

The  priest  caught  the  tone.  His  gray  eyes  un 
der  their  bushy  brows  looked  kindly  but  searchingly 
at  the  soldier  and  smiled  a  little.  He  set  down  his 
bag  and  leaned  on  his  stick.  "Well,"  he  said,  "I 
can  tell  you  one  thing,  my  son.  At  all  events  it 
was  not  chance  that  brought  me  here.  I  came  with 
a  purpose." 

The  soldier  started  a  little,  stung  by  suspicion. 
"What  then,"  he  cried,  roughly,  "were  you  looking 
for  me  ?  What  do  you  know  of  me  ?  What  is  this 
talk  of  chance  and  purpose?'* 

"Come,  come,"  said  the  priest,  his  smile  spread 
ing  from  his  eyes  to  his  lips,  "do  not  be  angry.  I 
assure  you  that  I  know  nothing  of  you  whatever, 
not  even  your  name  nor  why  you  are  here.  When 
I  said  that  I  came  with  a  purpose  I  meant  only  that 
a  certain  thought,  a  wish,  led  me  to  this  spot.  Let 
us  sit  together  awhile  beside  the  spring  and  make 
better  acquaintance." 

"I  do  not  desire  it,"  said  the  soldier,  with  a 
frown. 

94 


THE    BROKEN    SOLDIER 

"But  you  will  not  refuse  it?"  queried  the  priest 
gently.  "It  is  not  good  to  refuse  the  request  of 
one  old  enough  to  be  your  father.  Look,  I  have 
here  some  excellent  tobacco  and  cigarette-papers. 
Let  us  sit  down  and  smoke  together.  I  will  tell 
you  who  I  am  and  the  purpose  that  brought  me 
here." 

The  soldier  yielded  grudgingly,  not  knowing 
what  else  to  do.  They  sat  down  on  a  mossy  bank 
beside  the  spring,  and  while  the  blue  smoke  of  their 
cigarettes  went  drifting  under  the  little  trees  the 
priest  began : 

"My  name  is  Antoine  Courcy.  I  am  the  cure 
of  Darney,  a  village  among  the  Reaping  Hook  Hills, 
a  few  leagues  south  from  here.  For  twenty-five 
years  I  have  reaped  the  harvest  of  heaven  in  that 
blessed  little  field.  I  am  sorry  to  leave  it.  But 
now  this  war,  this  great  battle  for  freedom  and  the 
life  of  France,  calls  me.  It  is  a  divine  vocation. 
France  has  need  of  all  her  sons  to-day,  even  the 
old  ones.  I  cannot  keep  the  love  of  God  in  my  heart 
unless  I  follow  the  love  of  country  in  my  life.  My 
younger  brother,  who  used  to  be  the  priest  of  the 

95 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

next  parish  to  mine,  was  in  the  army.  He  has  fallen. 
I  am  going  to  replace  him.  I  am  on  my  way  to 
join  the  troops — as  a  chaplain,  if  they  will;  if  not, 
then  as  a  private.  I  must  get  into  the  army  of 
France  or  be  left  out  of  the  host  of  heaven." 

The  soldier  had  turned  his  face  away  and  was 
plucking  the  lobes  from  a  frond  of  fern.  "A  brave 
resolve,  Father,"  he  said,  with  an  ironic  note.  "But 
you  have  not  yet  told  me  what  brings  you  off  your 
road,  to  this  place. " 

"I  will  tell  you,"  replied  the  priest  eagerly;  "it 
is  the  love  of  Jeanne  d'Arc,  the  Maid  who  saved 
France  long  ago.  You  know  about  her?" 

"A  little,"  nodded  the  soldier.  "I  have  learned 
in  the  school.  She  was  a  famous  saint." 

"Not  yet  a  saint,"  said  the  priest  earnestly; 
"the  Pope  has  not  yet  pronounced  her  a  saint.  But 
it  will  be  done  soon.  Already  he  has  declared  her 
among  the  Blessed  Ones.  To  me  she  is  the  most 
blessed  of  all.  She  never  thought  of  herself  or  of 
a  saint's  crown.  She  gave  her  life  entire  for  France. 
And  this  is  the  place  that  she  came  from !  Think 
of  that — right  here!" 

96 


THE    BROKEN    SOLDIER 

"I  did  not  know  that,"  said  the  soldier. 

"But  yes,"  the  priest  went  on,  kindling.  "I 
tell  you  it  was  here  that  the  Maid  of  France  received 
her  visions  and  set  out  to  her  work.  You  see  that 
village  below  us — look  out  through  the  branches — 
that  is  Domremy,  where  she  was  born.  That  spire 
just  at  the  edge  of  the  wood — you  saw  that  ?  It  is 
the  basilica  they  have  built  to  her  memory.  It  is 
full  of  pictures  of  her.  It  stands  where  the  old  beech- 
tree,  'Fair  May,'  used  to  grow.  There  she  heard 
the  voices  and  saw  the  saints  who  sent  her  on  her 
mission.  And  this  is  the  Gooseberry  Spring,  the 
Well  of  the  Good  Fairies.  Here  she  came  with  the 
other  children,  at  the  festival  of  the  well-dressing, 
to  spread  their  garlands  around  it,  and  sing,  and 
eat  their  supper  on  the  green.  Heavenly  voices 
spoke  to  her,  but  the  others  did  not  hear  them. 
Often  did  she  drink  of  this  water.  It  became  a 
fountain  of  life  springing  up  in  her  heart.  I  have 
come  to  drink  at  the  same  source.  It  will  strengthen 
me  as  a  sacrament.  Come,  son,  let  us  take  it  to 
gether  as  we  go  to  our  duty  in  battle !" 

Father  Courcy  stood  up  and  opened  his  old  black 
97 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

bag.  He  took  out  a  small  metal  cup.  He  filled  it 
carefully  at  the  spring.  He  made  the  sign  of  the 
cross  over  it. 

"In  the  name  of  the  Father,  the  Son,  and  the 
Holy  Spirit,"  he  murmured,  "blessed  and  holy  is 
this  water."  Then  he  held  the  cup  toward  the  sol 
dier.  "Come,  let  us  share  it  and  make  our  vows 
together." 

The  bright  drops  trembled  and  fell  from  the 
bottom  of  the  cup.  The  soldier  sat  still,  his  head 
in  his  hands. 

"No,"  he  answered  heavily,  "I  cannot  take  it. 
I  am  not  worthy.  Can  a  man  take  a  sacrament 
without  confessing  his  sins  ?  " 

Father  Courcy  looked  at  him  with  pitying  eyes. 
"I  see,"  he  said  slowly;  "I  see,  my  son.  You  have 
a  burden  on  your  heart.  Well,  I  will  stay  with  you 
and  try  to  lift  it.  But  first  I  shall  make  my  own 
vow." 

He  raised  the  cup  toward  the  sky.  A  tiny  brown 
wren  sang  canticles  of  rapture  in  the  thicket.  A 
great  light  came  into  the  priest's  face — a  sun-ray 
from  the  east,  far  beyond  the  treetops. 

98 


THE    BROKEN    SOLDIER 

"Blessed  Jeanne  d'Arc,  I  drink  from  thy  foun 
tain  in  thy  name.  I  vow  my  life  to  thy  cause.  Aid 
me,  aid  this  my  son,  to  fight  valiantly  for  freedom 
and  for  France.  In  the  name  of  God,  Amen." 

The  soldier  looked  up  at  him.  Wonder,  admira 
tion,  and  shame  were  struggling  in  the  look.  Father 
Courcy  wiped  the  empty  cup  carefully  and  put  it 
back  in  his  bag.  Then  he  sat  down  beside  the  sol 
dier,  laying  a  fatherly  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Now,  my  son,  you  shall  tell  me  what  is  on  your 
heart." 

II 

THE  GREEN  CONFESSIONAL 

FOR  a  long  time  the  soldier  remained  silent.  His 
head  was  bowed.  His  shoulders  drooped.  His 
hands  trembled  between  his  knees.  He  was  wres 
tling  with  himself. 

"No,"  he  cried,  at  last,  "I  cannot,  I  dare  not  tell 
you.  Unless,  perhaps" — his  voice  faltered — "you 
could  receive  it  under  the  seal  of  confession?  But 
no.  How  could  you  do  that?  Here  in  the  green 
woods?  In  the  open  air,  beside  a  spring?  Here  is 
no  confessional." 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

"Why  not?"  asked  Father  Courcy.  "It  is  a 
good  place,  a  holy  place.  Heaven  is  over  our  heads 
and  very  near.  I  will  receive  your  confession  here." 

The  soldier  knelt  among  the  flowers.  The  priest 
pronounced  the  sacred  words.  The  soldier  began 
his  confession: 

"I,  Pierre  Duval,  a  great  sinner,  confess  my 
fault,  my  most  grievous  fault,  and  pray  for  par 
don."  He  stopped  for  a  moment  and  then  con 
tinued,  "But  first  I  must  tell  you,  Father,  just  who 
I  am  and  where  I  come  from  and  what  brings  me 
here." 

"Go  on,  Pierre  Duval,  go  on.  That  is  what  I 
am  waiting  to  hear.  Be  simple  and  very  frank." 

"Well,  then,  I  am  from  the  parish  of  Laucourt, 
in  the  pleasant  country  of  the  Barrois  not  far  from 
Bar-sur-Aube.  My  word,  but  that  is  a  pretty  land, 
full  of  orchards  and  berry-gardens !  Our  old  farm 
there  is  one  of  the  prettiest  and  one  of  the  best, 
though  it  is  small.  It  was  hard  to  leave  it  when  the 
call  to  the  colors  came,  two  years  ago.  But  I  was 
glad  to  go.  My  heart  was  high  and  strong  for  France. 
I  was  in  the  Nth  Infantry.  We  were  in  the  centre 
100 


THE    BROKEN 

division  under  General  Foch  at  the  battle  of  the 
Marne.  Fichtre !  but  that  was  fierce  fighting !  And 
what  a  general !  He  did  not  know  how  to  spell  'de 
feat.'  He  wrote  it  'victory.'  Four  times  we  went 
across  that  cursed  Marsh  of  St.-Gond.  The  dried 
mud  was  trampled  full  of  dead  bodies.  The  trick 
ling  streams  of  water  ran  red.  Four  times  we  were 
thrown  back  by  the  boches.  You  would  have 
thought  that  was  enough.  But  the  general  did  not 
think  so.  We  went  over  again  on  the  fifth  day,  and 
that  time  we  stayed.  The  Germans  could  not  stand 
against  us.  They  broke  and  ran.  The  roads  where 
we  chased  them  were  full  of  empty  wine-bottles. 
In  one  village  we  caught  three  officers  and  a  dozen 
men  dead  drunk.  Bigre  I  what  a  fine  joke ! " 

Pierre,  leaning  back  upon  his  heels,  was  losing 
himself  in  his  recital.  His  face  lighted  up,  his  hands 
were  waving.  Father  Courcy  bent  forward  with 
shining  eyes. 

"Continue,"  he  cried.  "This  is  a  beautiful  con 
fession — no  sin  yet.  Continue,  Pierre." 

"Well,  then,  after  that  we  were  fighting  here 
and  there,  on  the  Aisne,  on  the  Ailette,  everywhere. 
101 


'THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

Always  the  same  story — Germans  rolling  down  on 
us  in  flood,  green-gray  waves.  But  the  foam  on 
them  was  fire  and  steel.  The  shells  of  the  barrage 
swept  us  like  hailstones.  We  waited,  waited  in  our 
trenches,  till  the  green-gray  mob  was  near  enough. 
Then  the  word  came.  Sapristi!  We  let  loose  with 
mitrailleuse,  rifle,  field-gun,  everything  that  would 
throw  death.  It  did  not  seem  like  fighting  with 
men.  It  was  like  trying  to  stop  a  monstrous  thing, 
a  huge,  terrible  mass  that  was  rushing  on  to  over 
whelm  us.  The  waves  tumbled  and  broke  before 
they  reached  us.  Sometimes  they  fell  flat.  Some 
times  they  turned  and  rushed  the  other  way.  It 
was  wild,  wild,  like  a  change  of  the  wind  and  tide 
in  a  storm,  everything  torn  and  confused.  Then 
perhaps  the  word  came  to  go  over  the  top  and  at 
them.  That  was  furious.  That  was  fighting  with 
men,  for  sure — bayonet,  revolver,  rifle-butt,  knife, 
anything  that  would  kill.  Often  I  sickened  at  the 
blood  and  the  horror  of  it.  But  something  inside 
of  me  shouted:  *  Fight  on!  It  is  for  France.  It  is 
for  "L'Alouette,"  thy  farm;  for  thy  wife,  thy  little 
ones.  Will  you  let  them  be  ruined  by  those  beasts 
102 


THE    BROKEN    SOLDIER 

of  Germans?  What  are  they  doing  here  on  French 
soil?  Brigands,  butchers,  apaches!  Drive  them 
out;  and  if  they  will  not  go,  kill  them  so  they  can 
do  no  more  shameful  deeds.  Fight  on ! '  So  I  killed 
all  I  could." 

The  priest  nodded  his  head  grimly.  "You  were 
right,  Pierre;  your  voice  spoke  true.  It  was  a  dread 
ful  duty  that  you  were  doing.  The  Gospel  tells  us 
if  we  are  smitten  on  one  cheek  we  must  turn  the 
other.  But  it  does  not  tell  us  to  turn  the  cheek  of 
a  little  child,  of  the  woman  we  love,  the  country 
we  belong  to.  No !  that  would  be  disgraceful,  wicked, 
un-Christian.  It  would  be  to  betray  the  innocent ! 
Continue,  my  son." 

"Well,  then,"  Pierre  went  on,  his  voice  deepening 
and  his  face  growing  more  tense,  "then  we  were 
sent  to  Verdun.  That  was  the  hottest  place  of  all. 
It  was  at  the  top  of  the  big  German  drive.  The 
whole  sea  rushed  and  fell  on  us — big  guns,  little 
guns,  poison-gas,  hand-grenades,  liquid  fire,  bay 
onets,  knives,  and  trench-clubs.  Fort  after  fort 
went  down.  The  whole  pack  of  hell  was  loose  and 
raging.  I  thought  of  that  crazy,  chinless  Crown 
103 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

Prince  sitting  in  his  safe  little  cottage  hidden  in 
the  woods  somewhere — they  say  he  had  flowers 
and  vines  planted  around  it — drinking  stolen  cham 
pagne  and  sicking  on  his  dogs  of  death.  He  was 
in  no  danger.  I  cursed  him  in  my  heart,  that  blood- 
lord!  The  shells  rained  on  Verdun.  The  houses 
were  riddled;  the  cathedral  was  pierced  in  a  dozen 
places;  a  hundred  fires  broke  out.  The  old  citadel 
held  good.  The  outer  forts  to  the  north  and  east 
were  taken.  Only  the  last  ring  was  left.  We 
common  soldiers  did  not  know  much  about  what 
was  happening.  The  big  battle  was  beyond  our 
horizon.  But  that  General  Petain,  he  knew  it  all. 
Ah,  that  is  a  wise  man,  I  can  tell  you !  He  sent  us 
to  this  place  or  that  place  where  the  defense  was 
most  needed.  We  went  gladly,  without  fear  or 
holding  back.  We  were  resolute  that  those  mad 
dogs  should  not  get  through.  *  They  shall  not  pasa '  / 
And  they  did  not  pass ! " 

"Glorious!"  cried  the  priest,  drinking  the  story 
in.  "And  you,  Pierre?  Where  were  you,  what 
were  you  doing  ?  " 

"I  was  at  Douaumont,  that  fort  on  the  highest 
104 


THE    BROKEN    SOLDIER 

hill  of  all.  The  Germans  took  it.  It  cost  them 
ten  thousand  men.  The  ground  around  it  was  like 
a  wood-yard  piled  with  logs.  The  big  shell-holes 
were  full  of  corpses.  There  were  a  few  of  us  that 
got  away.  Then  our  company  was  sent  to  hold 
the  third  redoubt  on  the  slope  in  front  of  Fort  de 
Vaux.  Perhaps  you  have  heard  of  that  redoubt. 
That  was  a  bitter  job.  But  we  held  it  many  days 
and  nights.  The  boches  pounded  us  from  Douau- 
mont  and  from  the  village  of  Vaux.  They  sent 
wave  after  wave  up  the  slope  to  drive  us  out.  But 
we  stuck  to  it.  That  ravine  of  La  Caillette  was  a 
boiling  caldron  of  men.  It  bubbled  over  with  smoke 
and  fire.  Once,  when  their  second  wave  had  broken 
just  in  front  of  us,  we  went  out  to  hurry  the  frag 
ments  down  the  hill.  Then  the  guns  from  Douau- 
mont  and  the  village  of  Vaux  hammered  us.  Our 
men  fell  like  ninepins.  Our  lieutenant  called  to  us 
to  turn  back.  Just  then  a  shell  tore  away  his  right 
leg  at  the  knee.  It  hung  by  the  skin  and  tendons. 
He  was  a  brave  lad.  I  could  not  leave  him  to  die 
there.  So  I  hoisted  him  on  my  back.  Three  shots 
struck  me.  They  felt  just  like  hard  blows  from  a 
105 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

heavy  fist.  One  of  them  made  my  left  arm  power 
less.  I  sank  my  teeth  in  the  sleeve  of  my  lieutenant's 
coat  as  it  hung  over  my  shoulder.  I  must  not  let 
him  fall  off  my  back.  Somehow — God  knows  how 
— I  gritted  through  to  our  redoubt.  They  took 
my  lieutenant  from  my  shoulders.  And  then  the 
light  went  out." 

The  priest  leaned  forward,  his  hands  stretched 
out  around  the  soldier.  "But  you  are  a  hero,"  he 
cried.  "Let  me  embrace  you  !" 

The  soldier  drew  back,  shaking  his  head  sadly. 
"No,"  he  said,  his  voice  breaking — "no,  my  Father, 
you  must  not  embrace  me  now.  I  may  have  been 
a  brave  man  once.  But  now  I  am  a  coward.  Let 
me  tell  you  everything.  My  wounds  were  bad,  but 
not  desperate.  The  brancardiers  carried  me  down  to 
Verdun,  at  night  I  suppose,  but  I  was  unconscious; 
and  so  to  the  hospital  at  Vaudelaincourt.  There 
were  days  and  nights  of  blankness  mixed  with  pain. 
Then  I  came  to  my  senses  and  had  rest.  It  was 
wonderful.  I  thought  that  I  had  died  and  gone 
to  heaven.  Would  God  it  had  been  so!  Then  I 
should  have  been  with  my  lieutenant.  They  told 
106 


THE    BROKEN    SOLDIER 

me  he  had  passed  away  in  the  redoubt.  But  that 
hospital  was  beautiful,  so  clean  and  quiet  and 
friendly.  Those  white  nurses  were  angels.  They 
handled  me  like  a  baby.  I  would  have  liked  to 
stay  there.  I  had  no  desire  to  get  better.  But  I 
did.  One  day  several  officers  visited  the  hospital. 
They  came  to  my  cot,  where  I  was  sitting  up.  The 
highest  of  them  brought  out  a  Cross  of  War  and 
pinned  it  on  the  breast  of  my  nightshirt.  'There,' 
he  said,  'you  are  decorated,  Pierre  Duval !  You 
are  one  of  the  heroes  of  France.  You  are  soon  going 
to  be  perfectly  well  and  to  fight  again  bravely  for 
your  country.'  I  thanked  him,  but  I  knew  better. 
My  body  might  get  perfectly  well,  but  something 
in  my  soul  was  broken.  It  was  worn  out.  The 
thin  spring  had  snapped.  I  could  never  fight  again. 
Any  loud  noise  made  me  shake  all  over.  I  knew 
that  I  could  never  face  a  battle — impossible!  I 
should  certainly  lose  my  nerve  and  run  away.  It 
is  a  damned  feeling,  that  broken  something  inside 
of  one.  I  can't  describe  it." 

Pierre  stopped  for  a  moment  and  moistened  his 
dry  lips  with  the  tip  of  his  tongue. 
107 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

"I  know,"  said  Father  Courcy.  "I  understand 
perfectly  what  you  want  to  say.  It  was  like  being 
lost  and  thinking  that  nothing  could  save  you;  a 
feeling  that  is  piercing  and  dull  at  the  same  time, 
like  a  heavy  weight  pressing  on  you  with  sharp 
stabs  in  it.  It  was  what  they  call  shell-shock,  a 
terrible  thing.  Sometimes  it  drives  men  crazy  for 
a  while.  But  the  doctors  know  what  to  do  for  that 
malady.  It  passes.  You  got  over  it." 

"No,"  answered  Pierre,  "the  doctors  may  not 
have  known  that  I  had  it.  At  all  events,  they  did 
not  know  what  to  do  for  it.  It  did  not  pass.  It 
grew  worse.  But  I  hid  it,  talking  very  little,  never 
telling  anybody  how  I  felt.  They  said  I  was  de 
pressed  and  needed  cheering  up.  All  the  while  there 
was  that  black  snake  coiled  around  my  heart, 
squeezing  tighter  and  tighter.  But  my  body  grew 
stronger  every  day.  The  wounds  were  all  healed. 
I  was  walking  around.  In  July  the  doctor-in-chief 
sent  for  me  to  his  office.  He  said :  *  You  are  cured, 
Pierre  Duval,  but  you  are  not  yet  fit  to  fight.  You 
are  low  in  your  mind.  You  need  cheering  up.  You 
are  to  have  a  month's  furlough  and  repose.  You 
108 


THE    BROKEN    SOLDIER 

shall  go  home  to  your  farm.  How  is  it  that  you 
call  it?'  I  suppose  I  had  been  babbling  about  it 
in  my  sleep  and  one  of  the  nurses  had  told  him. 
He  was  always  that  way,  that  little  Doctor  Roselly, 
taking  an  interest  in  the  men,  talking  with  them 
and  acting  friendly.  I  said  the  farm  was  called 
4 L 'Alouette' — rather  a  foolish  name.  'Not  at  all,' 
he  answered;  'it  is  a  fine  name,  with  the  song  of  a 
bird  in  it.  Well,  you  are  going  back  to  "  L'Alouette  " 
to  hear  the  lark  sing  for  a  month,  to  kiss  your  wife 
and  your  children,  to  pick  gooseberries  and  cur 
rants.  Eh,  my  boy,  what  do  you  think  of  that? 
Then,  when  the  month  is  over,  you  will  be  a  new 
man.  You  will  be  ready  to  fight  again  at  Verdun. 
Remember  they  have  not  passed  and  they  shall 
not  pass !  Good  luck  to  you,  Pierre  Duval.'  So 
I  went  back  to  the  farm  as  fast  as  I  could  go." 

He  was  silent  for  a  few  moments,  letting  his 
thoughts  wander  through  the  pleasant  paths  of 
that  little  garden  of  repose.  His  eyes  were  dream 
ing,  his  lips  almost  smiled. 

"It  was  sweet  at  'L'Alouette,'  very  sweet,  Father. 
The  farm  was  in  pretty  good  order  and  the  kitchen- 
109 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

garden  was  all  right,  though  the  flowers  had  been 
a  little  neglected.  You  see,  my  wife,  Josephine, 
she  is  a  very  clever  woman.  She  had  kept  up  the 
things  that  were  the  most  necessary.  She  had 
hired  one  of  the  old  neighbors  and  a  couple  of  boys 
to  help  her  with  the  ploughing  and  planting.  The 
harvest  she  sold  as  it  stood.  Our  yoke  of  cream- 
colored  oxen  and  the  roan  horse  were  in  good  con 
dition.  Little  Pierrot,  who  is  five,  and  little  Jo- 
sette,  who  is  three,  were  as  brown  as  berries.  They 
hugged  me  almost  to  death.  But  it  was  Josephine 
herself  who  was  the  best  of  all.  She  is  only  twenty- 
six,  Father,  and  so  beautiful  still,  with  her  long 
chestnut  hair  and  her  eyes  like  stones  shining  under 
the  waters  of  a  brook.  I  tell  you  it  was  good  to 
get  her  in  my  arms  again  and  feel  her  lips  on  mine. 
And  to  wake  in  the  early  morning,  while  the  birds 
were  singing,  and  see  her  face  beside  me  on  the 
white  pillow,  sleeping  like  a  child,  that  was  a  little 
bit  of  Paradise.  But  I  do  wrong  to  tell  you  of  all 
this,  Father." 

"Proceed,    my    big    boy,"    nodded    the    priest. 
"You  are  saying  nothing  wrong.     I  was  a  man 
110 


THE    BROKEN    SOLDIER 

before  I  was  a  priest.  It  is  all  natural,  what  you 
are  saying,  and  all  according  to  God's  law — no  sin 
in  it.  Proceed.  Did  your  happiness  do  you  good  ?" 
Pierre  shook  his  head  doubtfully.  The  look  of 
dejection  came  back  to  his  face.  He  frowned  as 
if  something  puzzled  and  hurt  him.  "Yes  and  no. 
That  is  the  strange  thing.  It  made  me  thankful — 
that  goes  without  saying.  But  it  did  not  make  me 
any  stronger  in  my  heart.  Perhaps  it  was  too  sweet. 
I  thought  too  much  of  it.  I  could  not  bear  to  think 
of  anything  else.  The  idea  of  the  war  was  hateful, 
horrible,  disgusting.  The  noise  and  the  dirt  of  it, 
the  mud  in  the  autumn  and  the  bitter  cold  in  the 
winter,  the  rats  and  the  lice  in  the  dugouts.  And 
then  the  fury  of  the  charge,  and  the  everlasting 
killing,  killing,  or  being  killed!  The  danger  had 
seemed  little  or  nothing  to  me  when  I  was  there. 
But  at  a  distance  it  was  frightful,  unendurable. 
I  knew  that  I  could  never  stand  up  to  it  again. 
Besides,  already  I  had  done  my  share — enough  for 
two  or  three  men.  Why  must  I  go  back  into  that 
hell?  It  was  not  fair.  Life  was  too  dear  to  be 
risking  it  all  the  time.  I  could  not  endure  it. 
Ill 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

France?  France?  Of  course  I  love  France.  But 
my  farm  and  my  life  with  Josephine  and  the  chil 
dren  mean  more  to  me.  The  thing  that  made  me 
a  good  soldier  is  broken  inside  me.  It  is  beyond 
mending." 

His  voice  sank  lower  and  lower.  Father  Courcy 
looked  at  him  gravely. 

"But  your  farm  is  a  part  of  France.  You  be 
long  to  France.  He  that  saveth  his  life  shall  lose 
it!" 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know.  But  my  farm  is  such  a  small 
part  of  France.  I  am  only  one  man.  What  differ 
ence  does  one  man  make,  except  to  himself  ?  More 
over,  I  had  done  my  part,  that  was  certain.  Twenty 
times,  really,  my  life  had  been  lost.  Why  must  I 
throw  it  away  again?  Listen,  Father.  There  is  a 
village  in  the  Vosges,  near  the  Swiss  border,  where  a 
relative  of  mine  lives.  If  I  could  get  to  him  he 
would  take  me  in  and  give  me  some  other  clothes 
and  help  me  over  the  frontier  into  Switzerland. 
There  I  could  change  my  name  and  find  work  until 
the  war  is  over.  That  was  my  plan.  So  I  set  out 
on  my  journey,  following  the  less-travelled  roads, 


THE    BROKEN    SOLDIER 

tramping  by  night  and  sleeping  by  day.  Thus  I 
came  to  this  spring  at  the  same  time  as  you  by 
chance,  by  pure  chance.  Do  you  see?" 

Father  Courcy  looked  very  stern  and  seemed 
about  to  speak  in  anger.  Then  he  shook  his  head, 
and  said  quietly:  "No,  I  do  not  see  that  at  all. 
It  remains  to  be  seen  whether  it  was  by  chance. 
But  tell  me  more  about  your  sin.  Did  you  let  your 
wife,  Josephine,  know  what  you  were  going  to  do? 
Did  you  tell  her  good-by,  parting  for  Switzer 
land?" 

"Why,  no!  I  did  not  dare.  She  would  never 
have  forgiven  me.  /  So  I  slipped  down  to  the  post- 
office  at  Bar-sur-Aube  and  stole  a  telegraph  blank. 
It  was  ten  days  before  my  furlough  was  out.  I 
wrote  a  message  to  myself  calling  me  back  to  the 
colors  at  once.  I  showed  it  to  her.  Then  I  said 
good-by.  I  wept.  She  did  not  cry  one  tear.  Her 
eyes  were  stars.  She  embraced  me  a  dozen  times. 
She  lifted  up  each  of  the  children  to  hug  me.  Then 
she  cried:  'Go  now,  my  brave  man.  Fight  well. 
Drive  the  damned  boches  out.  It  is  for  us  and  for 
France.  God  protect  you.  Au  revoir !'  I  went 
113 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

down  the  road  silent.  I  felt  like  a  dog.  But  I 
could  not  help  it." 

"And  you  were  a  dog,"  said  the  priest  sternly. 
"That  is  what  you  were,  and  what  you  remain 
unless  you  can  learn  to  help  it.  You  lied  to  your 
wife.  You  forged;  you  tricked  her  who  trusted 
you.  You  have  done  the  thing  which  you  your 
self  say  she  would  never  forgive.  If  she  loves  you 
and  prays  for  you  now,  you  have  stolen  that  love 
and  that  prayer.  You  are  a  thief.  A  true  daughter 
of  France  could  never  love  a  coward  to-day." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  sobbed  Pierre,  burying  his 
face  in  the  weeds.  "Yet  I  did  it  partly  for  her, 
and  I  could  not  do  otherwise." 

"Very  little  for  her,  and  a  hundred  times  for 
yourself,"  said  the  priest  indignantly.  "Be  hon 
est.  If  there  was  a  little  bit  of  love  for  her,  it  was 
the  kind  of  love  she  did  not  want.  She  would  spit 
upon  it.  If  you  are  going  to  Switzerland  now  you 
are  leaving  her  forever.  You  can  never  go  back  to 
Josephine  again.  You  are  a  deserter.  She  would 
cast  you  out,  coward  ! " 

The  broken  soldier  lay  very  still,  almost  as  if  he 
114 


THE    BROKEN    SOLDIER 

were  dead.  Then  he  rose  slowly  to  his  feet,  with 
a  pale,  set  face.  He  put  his  hand  behind  his  back 
and  drew  out  a  revolver.  "It  is  true,"  he  said 
slowly,  "I  am  a  coward.  But  not  altogether  such 
a  coward  as  you  think,  Father.  It  is  not  merely 
death  that  I  fear.  I  could  face  that,  I  think. 
Here,  take  this  pistol  and  shoot  me  now !  No  one 
will  know.  You  can  say  you  shot  a  deserter,  or 
that  I  attacked  you.  Shoot  me  now,  Father,  and 
let  me  out  of  this  trouble." 

Father  Courcy  looked  at  him  with  amazement. 
Then  he  took  the  pistol,  uncocked  it  cautiously, 
and  dropped  it  behind  him.  He  turned  to  Pierre 
and  regarded  him  curiously.  "Go  on  with  your 
confession,  Pierre.  Tell  me  about  this  strange  kind 
of  cowardice  which  can  face  death." 

The  soldier  dropped  on  his  knees  again,  and  went 
on  in  a  low,  shaken  voice:  "It  is  this,  Father.  By 
my  broken  soul,  this  is  the  very  root  of  it.  I  am 
afraid  of  fear." 

The  priest  thought  for  an  instant.  "But  that  is 
not  reasonable,  Pierre.  It  is  nonsense.  Fear  can 
not  hurt  you.  If  you  fight  it  you  can  conquer  it. 
115 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

At  least  you  can  disregard  it,  march  through  it, 
as  if  it  were  not  there." 

"Not  this  fear,"  argued  the  soldier,  with  a  peas 
ant's  obstinacy.  "This  is  something  very  big  and 
dreadful.  It  has  no  shape,  but  a  dead- white  face 
and  red,  blazing  eyes  full  of  hate  and  scorn.  I  have 
seen  it  in  the  dark.  It  is  stronger  than  I  am. 
Since  something  is  broken  inside  of  me,  I  know  I 
can  never  conquer  it.  No,  it  would  wrap  its  shape 
less  arms  around  me  and  stab  me  to  the  heart  with 
its  fiery  eyes.  I  should  turn  and  run  in  the  middle 
of  the  battle.  I  should  trample  on  my  wounded 
comrades.  I  should  be  shot  in  the  back  and  die  in 
disgrace.  O  my  God !  my  God !  who  can  save  me 
from  this?  It  is  horrible.  I  cannot  bear  it." 

The  priest  laid  his  hand  gently  on  Pierre's  quiv 
ering  shoulder.  "  Courage,  my  son ! " 

"I  have  none." 

"Then  say  to  yourself  that  fear  is  nothing." 

"It  would  be  a  lie.    This  fear  is  real." 

"Then  cease  to  tremble  at  it;  kill  it." 

"Impossible.     I  am  afraid  of  fear." 

"  Then  carry  it  as  your  burden,  your  cross.    Take 
it  back  to  Verdun  with  you." 
116 


THE    BROKEN    SOLDIER 

"I  dare  not.  It  would  poison  the  others.  It 
would  bring  me  to  dishonor." 

"Pray  to  God  for  help." 

"He  will  not  answer  me.  I  am  a  wicked  man. 
Father,  I  have  made  my  confession.  Will  you  give 
me  a  penance  and  absolve  me?" 

"Promise  to  go  back  to  the  army  and  fight  as 
well  as  you  can." 

"Alas !  that  is  what  I  cannot  do.  My  mind  is 
shaken  to  pieces.  Whither  shall  I  turn?  I  can 
decide  nothing.  I  am  broken.  I  repent  of  my 
great  sin.  Father,  for  the  love  of  God,  speak  the 
word  of  absolution." 

Pierre  lay  on  his  face,  motionless,  his  arms 
stretched  out.  The  priest  rose  and  went  to  the 
spring.  He  scooped  up  a  few  drops  in  the  hollow 
of  his  hand.  He  sprinkled  it  like  holy  water  upon 
the  soldier's  head.  A  couple  of  tears  fell  with  it. 

"God  have  pity  on  you,  my  son,  and  bring  you 
back  to  yourself.  The  word  of  absolution  is  not 
for  me  to  speak  while  you  think  of  forsaking  France. 
Put  that  thought  away  from  you,  do  penance  for 
it,  and  you  will  be  absolved  from  your  great  sin." 

Pierre  turned  over  and  lay  looking  up  at  the 
117 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

priest's  face  and  at  the  blue  sky  with  white  clouds 
drifting  across  it.  He  sighed.  "Ah,  if  that  could 
only  be !  But  I  have  not  the  strength.  It  is  impos 
sible." 

"All  things  are  possible  to  him  that  believeth. 
Strength  will  come.  Perhaps  Jeanne  d'Arc  herself 
will  help  you." 

"She  would  never  speak  to  a  man  like  me.  She 
is  a  great  saint,  very  high  in  heaven." 

"She  was  a  farmer's  lass,  a  peasant  like  yourself. 
She  would  speak  to  you,  gladly  and  kindly,  if  you 
saw  her,  and  in  your  own  language,  too.  Trust 
her." 

"But  I  do  not  know  enough  about  her." 

"Listen,  Pierre.  I  have  thought  for  you.  I  will 
appoint  the  first  part  of  your  penance.  You  shall 
take  the  risk  of  being  recognized  and  caught.  You 
shall  go  down  to  the  village  and  visit  the  places 
that  belong  to  her — her  basilica,  her  house,  her 
church.  Then  you  shall  come  back  here  and  wait 
until  you  know — until  you  surely  know  what  you 
must  do.  Will  you  promise  this  ?  " 

Pierre  had  risen  and  looked  up  at  the  priest  with 
118 


THE    BROKEN    SOLDIER 

tear-stained  face.  But  his  eyes  were  quieter.  "  Yes, 
Father,  I  can  promise  you  this  much  faithfully." 

"Now  I  must  go  my  way.  Farewell,  my  son. 
Peace  in  war  be  with  you."  He  held  out  his  hand. 

Pierre  took  it  reverently.  "And  with  you, 
Father,"  he  murmured. 

Ill 

THE  ABSOLVING  DREAM 

ANTOINE  COURCY  was  one  of  those  who  are  fitted 
and  trained  by  nature  for  the  cure  of  souls.  If  you 
had  spoken  to  him  of  psychiatry  he  would  not  have 
understood  you.  The  long  word  would  have  been 
Greek  to  him.  But  the  thing  itself  he  knew  well. 
The  preliminary  penance  which  he  laid  upon  Pierre 
Duval  was  remedial.  It  belonged  to  the  true  heal 
ing  art  which  works  first  in  the  spirit. 

When  the  broken  soldier  went  down  the  hill,  in 
the  blaze  of  the  mid-morning  sunlight,  toward  Dom- 
remy,  there  was  much  misgiving  and  confusion  in 
his  thoughts.  He  did  not  comprehend  why  he  was 
going,  except  that  he  had  promised.  He  was  not 
119 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

sure  that  some  one  might  not  know  him,  or  perhaps 
out  of  mere  curiosity  stop  him  and  question  him. 
It  was  a  reluctant  journey. 

Yet  it  was  in  effect  an  unconscious  pilgrimage 
to  the  one  health-resort  that  his  soul  needed.  For 
Domremy  and  the  region  round  about  are  saturated 
with  the  most  beautiful  story  of  France.  The  life 
of  Jeanne  d'Arc,  simple  and  mysterious,  humble 
and  glorious,  most  human  and  most  heavenly,  flows 
under  that  place  like  a  hidden  stream,  rising  at  every 
turn  in  springs  and  fountains.  The  poor  little  vil 
lage  lives  in  and  for  her  memory.  Her  presence 
haunts  the  ridges  and  the  woods,  treads  the  green 
pastures,  follows  the  white  road  beside  the  river, 
and  breathes  in  the  never-resting  valley-wind  that 
marries  the  flowers  in  June  and  spreads  their  seed 
in  August. 

At  the  small  basilica  built  to  her  memory  on  the 
place  where  her  old  beech-tree,  "Fair  May,5*  used 
to  stand,  there  was  an  ancient  caretaker  who  ex 
plained  to  Pierre  the  pictures  from  the  life  of  the 
Maid  with  which  the  walls  are  decorated.  They 
are  stiff  and  conventional,  but  the  old  man  found 
120 


THE    MAID    OF    FRANCE 

them  wonderful  and  told  with  zest  the  story  of  La 
Pucelle — how  she  saw  her  first  vision;  how  she 
recognized  the  Dauphin  in  his  palace  at  Chinon; 
how  she  broke  the  siege  of  Orleans;  how  she  saw 
Charles  crowned  in  the  cathedral  at  Rheims;  how 
she  was  burned  at  the  stake  in  Rouen.  But  they 
could  not  kill  her  soul.  She  saved  France. 

In  the  village  church  there  was  a  priest  from  the 
border  of  Alsace,  also  a  pilgrim  like  Pierre,  but  one 
who  knew  the  shrine  better.  He  showed  the  differ 
ence  between  the  new  and  the  old  parts  of  the  build 
ing.  Certain  things  the  Maid  herself  had  seen  and 
touched. 

"Here  is  the  old  holy-water  basin,  an  antique, 
broken  column  hollowed  out  on  top.  Here  her 
fingers  must  have  rested  often.  Before  this  ancient 
statue  of  St.  Michel  she  must  have  often  knelt  to 
say  her  prayers.  The  cure  of  the  parish  was  a  friend 
of  hers  and  loved  to  talk  with  her.  She  was  a  good 
girl,  devout  and  obedient,  not  learned,  but  a  holy 
and  great  soul.  She  saved  France.'9 

In  the  house  where  she  was  born  and  passed  her 
childhood  a  crippled  old  woman  was  custodian.  It 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

was  a  humble  dwelling  of  plastered  stone  standing 
between  two  tall  fir-trees,  with  ivy  growing  over 
the  walls,  lilies  and  hollyhocks  blooming  in  the  gar 
den.  Pierre  found  it  not  half  so  good  a  house  as 
"L'Alouette"  But  to  the  custodian  it  was  more 
precious  than  a  palace.  In  this  upper  room  with 
its  low  mullioned  window  the  Maid  began  her  life. 
Here,  in  the  larger  room  below,  is  the  kneeling  statue 
which  the  Princess  Marie  d'Orleans  made  of  her. 
Here,  to  the  right,  under  the  sloping  roof,  with  its 
worm-eaten  beams,  she  slept  and  prayed  and 
worked. 

"See,  here  is  the  bread-board  between  two  tim 
bers  where  she  cut  the  bread  for  the  croute  au  pot. 
From  this  small  window  she  looked  at  night  and 
saw  the  sanctuary  light  burning  in  the  church.  Here, 
also,  as  well  as  in  the  garden  and  in  the  woods,  her 
heavenly  voices  spoke  to  her  and  told  her  what  she 
must  do  for  her  king  and  her  country.  She  was 
not  afraid  or  ashamed,  though  she  lived  in  so  small 
a  house,  Here  in  this  very  room  she  braided  her 
hair  and  put  on  her  red  dress,  and  set  forth  on  foot 
for  her  visit  to  Robert  de  Baudricourt  at  Vaucou- 


THE    MAID    OF    FRANCE 

leurs.  He  was  a  rough  man  and  at  first  he  received 
her  roughly.  But  at  last  she  convinced  him.  He 
gave  her  a  horse  and  arms  and  sent  her  to  the  king. 
She  saved  France." 

At  the  rustic  inn  Pierre  ate  thick  slices  of  dark 
bread  and  drank  a  stoup  of  thin  red  wine  at  noon. 
He  sat  at  a  bare  table  in  the  corner  of  the  room. 
Behind  him,  at  a  table  covered  with  a  white  cloth, 
two  captains  on  furlough  had  already  made  their 
breakfast.  They  also  were  pilgrims,  drawn  to  Dom- 
remy  by  the  love  of  Jeanne  d'Arc.  They  talked 
of  nothing  else  but  of  her.  Yet  their  points  of  view 
were  absolutely  different. 

One  of  them,  the  younger,  was  short  and  swarthy, 
a  Savoyard,  the  son  of  an  Italian  doctor  at  St.-Jean 
de  Maurienne.  He  was  ^a  sceptic;  he  believed  in 
Jeanne,  but  not  in  the  legends  about  her. 

"I  tell  you,"  said  he  eagerly,  "she  was  one  of 
the  greatest  among  women.  But  all  that  about 
her  *  voices'  was  illusion.  The  priests  suggested  it. 
She  had  hallucinations.  Remember  her  age  when 
they  began — just  thirteen.  She  was  clever  and 
strong;  doubtless  she  was  pretty;  certainly  she 
123 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

was  very  courageous.  She  was  only  a  girl.  But 
she  had  a  big,  brave  idea  which  possessed  her — 
the  liberation  of  her  country.  Pure?  Yes.  I  am 
sure  she  was  virtuous.  Otherwise  the  troops  would 
not  have  followed  and  obeyed  her  as  they  did.  Sol 
diers  are  very  quick  about  those  things.  They 
recognize  and  respect  an  honest  woman.  Several 
men  were  in  love  with  her,  I  think.  But  she  was 
une  nature  froide.  The  only  thing  that  moved  her 
was  her  big,  brave  idea — to  save  France.  The  Maid 
was  a  mother,  but  not  of  a  mortal  child.  Her  off 
spring  was  the  patriotism  of  France." 

The  other  captain  was  a  man  of  middle  age,  from 
Lyons,  the  son  of  an  architect.  He  was  tall  and 
pale  and  his  large  brown  eyes  had  the  tranquillity 
of  a  devout  faith  in  them.  He  argued  with  quiet 
tenacity  for  his  convictions. 

"You  are  right  to  believe  in  her,"  said  he,  "but 
I  think  you  are  mistaken  to  deny  her  'voices/  They 
were  as  real  as  anything  in  her  life.  You  credit  her 
when  she  says  that  she  was  born  here,  that  she  went 
to  Chinon  and  saw  the  king,  that  she  delivered  Or 
leans.  Why  not  credit  her  when  she  says  she  heard 
124 


THE    MAID    OF    FRANCE 

God  and  the  saints  speaking  to  her?  The  proof 
of  it  was  in  what  she  did.  Have  you  read  the  story 
of  her  trial?  How  clear  and  steady  her  answers 
were!  The  judges  could  not  shake  her.  Yet  at 
any  moment  she  could  have  saved  her  life  by  deny 
ing  the  'voices/  It  was  because  she  knew,  because 
she  was  sure,  that  she  could  not  deny.  Her  vision 
was  a  part  of  her  real  life.  She  was  the  mother  of 
French  patriotism — yes.  But  she  was  also  the 
daughter  of  true  faith.  That  was  her  power." 

"Well,"  said  the  younger  man,  "she  sacrificed 
herself  and  she  saved  France.  That  was  the  great 
thing." 

"Yes,"  said  the  elder  man,  stretching  his  hand 
across  the  table  to  clasp  the  hand  of  his  companion, 
"  there  is  nothing  greater  than  that.  If  we  do  that, 
God  will  forgive  us  all." 

They  put  on  their  caps  to  go.  Pierre  rose  and 
stood  at  attention.  They  returned  his  salute  with 
a  friendly  smile  and  passed  out. 

After  a  few  moments  he  finished  his  bread  and 
wine,  paid  his  score,  and  followed  them.  He  watched 
them  going  down  the  village  street  toward  the  rail- 
125 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

way  station.     Then  he  turned  and  walked  slowly 
back  to  the  spring  in  the  dell. 

The  afternoon  was  hot,  in  spite  of  the  steady 
breeze  which  came  out  of  the  north.  The  air  felt 
as  if  it  had  passed  through  a  furnace.  The  low, 
continuous  thunder  of  the  guns  rolled  up  from  Ver 
dun,  with  now  and  then  a  sharper  clap  from  St.- 
Mihiel. 

Pierre  was  very  tired.  His  head  was  heavy,  his 
heart  troubled.  He  lay  down  among  the  ferns, 
looking  idly  at  the  foxglove  spires  above  him  and 
turning  over  in  his  mind  the  things  he  had  heard 
and  seen  at  Domremy.  Presently  he  fell  into  a 
profound  sleep. 

How  long  it  was  he  could  not  tell,  but  suddenly 
he  became  aware  of  some  one  near  him.  He  sprang 
up.  A  girl  was  standing  beside  the  spring. 

She  wore  a  bright-red  dress  and  her  feet  were 
bare.  Her  black  hair  hung  down  her  back.  Her 
eyes  were  the  color  of  a  topaz.  Her  form  was  tall 
and  straight.  She  carried  a  distaff  under  her  arm 
and  looked  as  if  she  had  just  come  from  following 
the  sheep. 

126 


THE    MAID    OF    FRANCE 

"Good  day,  shepherdess,"  said  Pierre.  Then  a 
strange  thought  struck  him,  and  he  fell  on  his  knees. 
"Pardon,  lady,"  he  stammered.  "Forgive  my  rude 
ness.  You  are  of  the  high  society  of  heaven,  a  saint. 
You  are  called  Jeanne  d'Arc  ?  " 

She  nodded  and  smiled.  "That  is  my  name," 
said  she.  "Sometimes  they  call  me  La  Pucelle,  or 
the  Maid  of  France.  But  you  were  right,  I  am  a 
shepherdess,  too.  I  have  kept  my  father's  sheep 
in  the  fields  down  there,  and  spun  from  the  distaff 
while  I  watched  them.  I  know  how  to  sew  and  spin 
as  well  as  any  girl  in  the  Barrois  or  Lorraine.  Will 
you  not  stand  up  and  talk  with  me?" 

Pierre  rose,  still  abashed  and  confused.  He  did 
not  quite  understand  how  to  take  this  strange  ex 
perience — too  simple  for  a  heavenly  apparition,  too 
real  for  a  common  dream.  "Well,  then,"  said  he, 
"  if  you  are  a  shepherdess,  why  are  you  here  ?  There 
are  no  sheep  here." 

"But  yes.  You  are  one  of  mine.  I  have  come 
here  to  seek  you." 

"Do  you  know  me,  then?  How  can  I  be  one  of 
yours?" 

127 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

"Because  you  are  a  soldier  of  France  and  you 
are  in  trouble." 

Pierre's  head  drooped.  "A  broken  soldier,"  he 
muttered,  "not  fit  to  speak  to  you.  I  am  running 
away  because  I  am  afraid  of  fear." 

She  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed.  "You 
speak  very  bad  French.  There  is  no  such  thing  as 
being  afraid  of  fear.  For  if  you  are  afraid  of  it,  you 
hate  it.  If  you  hate  it,  you  will  have  nothing  to 
do  with  it.  And  if  you  have  nothing  to  do  with  it, 
it  cannot  touch  you;  it  is  nothing." 

"But  for  you,  a  saint,  it  is  easy  to  say  that.  You 
had  no  fear  when  you  fought.  You  knew  you  would 
not  be  killed." 

"I  was  no  more  sure  of  that  than  the  other  sol 
diers.  Besides,  when  they  bound  me  to  the  stake 
at  Rouen  and  kindled  the  fire  around  me  I  knew 
very  well  that  I  should  be  killed.  But  there  was 
no  fear  in  it.  Only  peace." 

"Ah,  you  were  strong,  a  warrior  born.  You  were 
not  wounded  and  broken." 

"Four  times  I  was  wounded,"  she  answered 
gravely.  "At  Orleans  a  bolt  went  through  my  right 
128 


THE    MAID    OF    FRANCE 

shoulder.  At  Paris  a  lance  tore  my  thigh.  I  never 
saw  the  blood  of  Frenchmen  flow  without  feeling 
my  heart  stand  still.  I  was  not  a  warrior  born.  I 
knew  not  how  to  ride  or  fight.  But  I  did  it.  What 
we  must  needs  do  that  we  can  do.  Soldier,  do  not 
look  on  the  ground.  Look  up." 

Then  a  strange  thing  took  place  before  his  eyes. 
A  wondrous  radiance,  a  mist  of  light,  enveloped 
and  hid  the  shepherdess.  When  it  melted  she  was 
clad  in  shining  armor,  sitting  on  a  white  horse,  and 
lifting  a  bare  sword  in  her  left  hand. 

"God  commands  you,"  she  cried.  "It  is  for 
France.  Be  of  good  cheer.  Do  not  retreat.  The 
fort  will  soon  be  yours !" 

How  should  Pierre  know  that  this  was  the  cry 
with  which  the  Maid  had  rallied  her  broken  men 
at  Orleans  when  the  fort  of  Les  Tourelles  fell  ?  What 
he  did  know  was  that  something  seemed  to  spring 
up  within  him  to  answer  that  call.  He  felt  that  he 
would  rather  die  than  desert  such  a  leader. 

The  figure  on  the  horse  turned  away  as  if  to 
go. 

"Do  not  leave  me,"  he  cried,  stretching  out  his 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

hands  to  her.     "Stay  with  me.     I  will  obey  you 
joyfully." 

She  turned  again  and  looked  at  him  very  ear 
nestly.  Her  eyes  shone  deep  into  his  heart.  "Here 
I  cannot  stay,"  answered  a  low,  sweet,  womanly 
voice.  "It  is  late,  and  my  other  children  need  me." 

"But  forgiveness?  Can  you  give  that  to  me — a 
coward?" 

"You  are  no  coward.  Your  only  fault  was  to 
doubt  a  brave  man." 

"And  my  wife?    May  I  go  back  and  tell  her?" 

"No,  surely.  Would  you  make  her  hear  slander 
of  the  man  she  loves?  Be  what  she  believes  you 
and  she  will  be  satisfied." 

"And  the  absolution,  the  word  of  peace?  Will 
you  speak  that  to  me?" 

Her  eyes  shone  more  clearly;  the  voice  sounded 
sweeter  and  steadier  than  ever.  "After  the  penance 
comes  the  absolution.  You  will  find  peace  only 
at  the  lance's  point.  Son  of  France,  go,  go,  go! 
I  will  help  you.  Go  hardily  to  Verdun." 

Pierre  sprang  forward  after  the  receding  figure, 
tried  to  clasp  the  knee,  the  foot  of  the  Maid.    As 
130 


THE    MAID    OF    FRANCE 

he  fell  to  the  ground  something  sharp  pierced  his 
hand.  It  must  be  her  spur,  thought  he. 

Then  he  was  aware  that  his  eyes  were  shut.  He 
opened  them  and  looked  at  his  hand  carefully. 
There  was  only  a  scratch  on  it,  and  a  tiny  drop  of 
blood.  He  had  torn  it  on  the  thorns  of  the  wild 
gooseberry-bushes. 

His  head  lay  close  to  the  clear  pool  of  the  spring. 
He  buried  his  face  in  it  and  drank  deep.  Then  he 
sprang  up,  shaking  the  drops  from  his  mustache, 
found  his  cap  and  pistol,  and  hurried  up  the  glen 
toward  the  old  Roman  road. 

"No  more  of  that  damned  foolishness  about 
Switzerland,"  he  said,  aloud.  "I  belong  to  France. 
I  am  going  with  the  other  boys  to  save  her.  I  was 
born  for  that."  He  took  off  his  cap  and  stood  still 
for  a  moment.  He  spoke  as  if  he  were  taking  an 
oath.  "  By  Jeanne  d'Arc ! " 


131 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 
IV 

THE  VICTORIOUS   PENANCE 

IT  never  occurred  to  Pierre  Duval,  as  he  trudged 
those  long  kilometres  toward  the  front,  that  he  was 
doing  a  penance. 

The  joy  of  a  mind  made  up  is  a  potent  cordial. 

The  greetings  of  comrades  on  the  road  put  glad 
ness  into  his  heart  and  strength  into  his  legs. 

It  was  a  hot  and  dusty  journey,  and  a  sober  one. 
But  it  was  not  a  sad  one.  He  was  going  toward 
that  for  which  he  was  born.  He  was  doing  that 
which  France  asked  of  him,  that  which  God  told 
him  to  do.  Josephine  would  be  glad  and  proud  of 
him.  He  would  never  be  ashamed  to  meet  her  eyes. 
As  he  went,  alone  or  in  company  with  others,  he 
whistled  and  sang  a  bit.  He  thought  of  " L'Alouette  " 
a  good  deal.  But  not  too  much.  He  thought  also 
of  the  forts  of  Douaumont  and  Vaux. 

"Dame!"  he  cried  to  himself.     "If  I  could  help 
to  win  them  back  again !    That  would  be  fine  !    How 
sick  that  would  make  those  cursed  boches  and  their 
knock-kneed  Crown  Prince !" 
132 


THE    MAID    OF    FRANCE 

At  the  little  village  of  the  headquarters  behind 
Verdun  he  found  many  old  friends  and  companions. 
They  greeted  him  with  cheerful  irony. 

"Behold  the  prodigal !  You  took  your  time  about 
coming  back,  didn't  you  ?  Was  the  hospital  to  your 
taste,  the  nurses  pretty?  How  is  the  wife?  Any 
more  children?  How  goes  it,  old  man?" 

"No  more  children  yet,"  he  answered,  grinning; 
"but  all  goes  well.  I  have  come  back  from  a  far 
country,  but  I  find  the  pigs  are  still  grunting.  What 
have  you  done  to  our  old  cook  ? " 

"Nothing  at  all,"  was  the  joyous  reply.  "He 
tried  to  swim  in  his  own  soup  and  he  was  drowned." 

When  Pierre  reported  to  the  officer  of  the  day, 
that  busy  functionary  consulted  the  record. 

"You  are  a  day  ahead  of  your  time,  Pierre  Du- 
val,"  he  said,  frowning  slightly. 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  the  soldier.  "It  costs  less 
to  be  a  day  ahead  than  a  day  too  late." 

"That  is  well,"  said  the  officer,  smiling  in  his 
red  beard.     "You  will  report  to-morrow  to  your 
regiment  at  the  citadel.    You  have  a  new  colonel, 
but  the  regiment  is  busy  in  the  old  way." 
133 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

As  Pierre  saluted  and  turned  to  go  out  his  eye 
caught  the  look  of  a  general  officer  who  stood  near, 
watching.  He  was  a  square,  alert,  vigorous  man, 
his  face  bronzed  by  the  suns  of  many  African  cam 
paigns,  his  eyes  full  of  intelligence,  humor,  and 
courage.  It  was  Guillaumat,  the  new  commander 
of  the  Army  of  Verdun. 

"You  are  prompt,  my  son,"  said  he  pleasantly, 
"but  you  must  remember  not  to  be  in  a  hurry.  You 
have  been  in  hospital.  Are  you  well  again  ?  Nothing 
broken?" 

"Something  was  broken,  my  General,"  responded 
the  soldier  gravely,  "but  it  is  mended." 

"Good!"  said  the  general.  "Now  for  the  front, 
to  beat  the  Germans  at  their  own  game.  We  shall 
get  them.  It  may  be  long,  but  we  shall  get  them  ! " 

That  was  the  autumn  of  the  offensive  of  1916, 
by  which  the  French  retook,  in  ten  days,  what  it 
had  cost  the  Germans  many  months  to  gain. 

Pierre  was  there  in  that  glorious  charge  at  the 

end  of  October  which  carried  the  heights  of  Douau- 

mont  and  took  six  thousand  prisoners.     He  was 

there  at  the  recapture  of  the  Fort  de  Vaux  which 

134 


THE    MAID    OF    FRANCE 

the  Germans  evacuated  in  the  first  week  of  No 
vember.  In  the  last  rush  up  the  slope,  v  fere  he 
had  fought  long  ago,  a  stray  shell,  an  inscrutable 
messenger  of  fate,  coming  from  far  away,  no  one 
knows  whence,  caught  him  and  ripped  him  horribly 
across  the  body. 

It  was  a  desperate  mass  of  wounds.  But  the 
men  of  his  squad  loved  their  corporal.  He  still 
breathed.  They  saw  to  it  that  he  was  carried  back 
to  the  little  transit  hospital  just  behind  the  Fort 
de  Souville. 

It  was  a  rude  hut  of  logs,  covered  with  sand-bags, 
on  the  slope  of  the  hill.  The  ruined  woods  around 
it  were  still  falling  to  the  crash  of  far-thrown  shells. 
In  the  close,  dim  shelter  of  the  inner  room  Pierre 
came  to  himself. 

He  looked  up  into  the  face  of  Father  Courcy. 
A  light  of  recognition  and  gratitude  flickered  in 
his  eyes.  It  was  like  finding  an  old  friend  in  the 
dark. 

"Welcome!— But  the  fort?"  he  gasped. 

"It  is  ours,"  said  the  priest. 

Something  like  a  smile  passed  over  the  face  of 
135 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

Pierre.  He  could  not  speak  for  a  long  time.  The 
blood  in  his  throat  choked  him.  At  last  he  whis 
pered: 

"Tell  Josephine— love." 

Father  Courcy  bowed  his  head  and  took  Pierre's 
hand.  "Surely,"  he  said.  "But  now,  my  dear 
son  Pierre,  I  must  prepare  you — " 

The  struggling  voice  from  the  cot  broke  in,  whis 
pering  slowly,  with  long  intervals:  "Not  neces 
sary.  ...  I  know  already.  .  .  .  The  penance. 
.  .  .  France.  .  .  .  Jeanne  d'Arc.  .  .  .  It  is  done." 

A  few  drops  of  blood  gushed  from  the  corner  of 
his  mouth.  The  look  of  peace  that  often  comes 
to  those  who  die  of  gunshot  wounds  settled  on  his 
face.  His  eyes  grew  still  as  the  priest  laid  the  sacred 
wafer  on  his  lips.  The  broken  soldier  was  made 
whole. 


136 


THE    HEARING    EAR 


THE    HEARING    EAR 

THERE  were  three  American  boys  from  the 
region  of  Philadelphia  in  the  dugout,  "Somewhere 
in  France";  and  they  found  it  a  snug  habitation, 
considering  the  circumstances. 

The  central  heating  system — a  round  sheet-iron 
stove,  little  larger  than  a  "topper"  hat — sent  out 
incredible  quantities  of  acrid  smoke  at  such  times 
as  the  rusty  stovepipe  refused  to  draw.  But  on 
cold  nights  and  frosty  mornings  the  refractory  thing 
was  a  distinct  consolation.  The  ceiling  of  the  apart 
ment  lacked  finish.  When  wet  it  dropped  mud; 
when  dry,  dust.  But  it  had  the  merit  of  being  twenty 
feet  thick — enough  to  stop  any  German  shell  except 
a  "Jack  Johnson"  full  of  high  explosive.  The  beds 
were  elegantly  excavated  in  the  wall,  and  by  a  slight 
forward  inclination  of  the  body  you  could  use  them 
as  fauteuils.  The  rats  approved  of  them  highly. 

There  were  two  flights  of  ladder-stairs  leading 
down  from  the  trench  into  the  dugout,  and  the 
holes  at  the  top  which  served  as  vestibules  were 
139 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

three  or  four  yards  apart.  It  was  a  comfort  to  think 
of  this  architectural  design;  for  if  the  explosion 
of  a  big  shell  blocked  up  one  of  the  entrances,  the 
other  would  probably  remain  open,  and  you  would 
not  be  caught  in  a  trap  with  the  other  rats. 

The  main  ornament  of  the  salon  was  a  neat  but 
not  gaudy  biscuit-box.  The  top  of  it  was  a  centre- 
table,  illuminated  by  a  single,  guttering  candle; 
the  interior  was  a  "combination"  wardrobe  and 
sideboard.  Around  this  simple  but  satisfying  piece 
of  furniture  the  three  transient  tenants  of  the  dug 
out  had  just  played  a  game  of  dummy  bridge,  and 
now  sat  smoking  and  bickering  as  peacefully  as  if 
they  were  in  a  college  club-room  in  America.  The 
night  on  the  front  was  what  the  French  call  "rela- 
tivement  calme."  Sporadic  explosions  above  punc 
tuated  but  did  not  interrupt  the  debate,  which 
eddied  about  the  high  theme  of  Education — with 
a  capital  "E" — and  the  particular  point  of  dispute 
was  the  study  of  languages. 

"Everything  is  going  to  change  after  the  war," 
said  Phipps-Herrick,  a  big  Harvard  man  from  Bryn 
Mawr  and  a  member  of  the  Unsocial  Socialists' 
140 


THE    HEARING    EAR 

Club.  "We  are  going  to  make  a  new  world.  Must 
have  a  new  education.  Sweep  away  all  the  old 
stuff — languages,  grammar,  literature,  philosophy, 
history,  and  all  that.  Put  in  something  modern 
and  practical.  Montessori  system  for  the  little 
kids.  Vocational  training  for  the  bigger  ones.  Teach 
them  to  make  a  living.  Then  organize  them  polit 
ically  and  economically.  You  can  do  what  you 
like,  then,  with  England,  France,  and  America  to 
gether.  Germany  will  be  shut  out.  Why  study 
German?  From  a  practical  point  of  view,  I  ask 
you,  why?" 

"Didn't  you  take  it  at  Harvard?"  sarcastically 
drawled  Rosenlaube,  a  Princeton  man  from  Ritten- 
house  Square.  (His  grandfather  was  born  at  Frank- 
fort-on-the-Main,  but  his  mother  was  a  Biddle, 
and  he  had  penetrated  about  an  inch  into  the  Amer 
ican  diplomatic  service  when  the  war  summoned 
him  to  a  more  serious  duty.)  "I  understood  that 
all  you  Harvard  men  were  strong  on  modern  lan 
guages,  especially  German." 

Phipps-Herrick  grunted. 

"Certainly  I  took  it.  It  was  supposed  to  be  a 
141 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

soft-snap  course.  What  do  you  think  we  go  to  Har 
vard  for?  But  that  little  beast,  Professor  von  Buch, 
gave  me  a  cold  forty-minus  on  examination.  So 
I  dropped  it,  and  thank  God  I've  forgotten  the 
little  I  ever  knew  of  German !  It  will  be  absolutely 
useless  in  the  new  world." 

"Right  you  are,"  said  Rosenlaube.  "My  grand 
father  used  to  speak  it  when  he  was  angry — a  sloppy, 
slushy  language,  extremely  ugly.  At  Princeton,  you 
know,  we  stand  by  the  classics,  Latin  and  Greek, 
the  real  thing  in  languages.  You  ought  to  hear 
Dean  Andy  West  talk  about  that.  Of  course  a 
fellow  forgets  his  Virgil  and  his  Homer  when  he 
gets  out  in  the  world.  But,  then,  he's  had  the  benefit 
of  them;  they've  given  him  real  culture  and  liter 
ature.  There's  nothing  outside  of  the  classics,  ex 
cept  perhaps  a  few  things  in  French  and  Italian. 
Thank  God  I  never  studied  German ! " 

The  third  man,  who  had  kept  silence  up  to  this 
point,  now  gently  butted  in.  It  was  little  Phil 
Mitchell,  of  Overbrook,  a  University  of  Pennsyl 
vania  man,  who  had  been  stopped  in  his  junior  year 
by  a  financial  catastrophe  in  the  family,  and  had 
142 


THE    HEARING    EAR 

gone  out  to  Idaho  to  earn  his  living  as  third  assistant 
bookkeeper  in  a  big  mining  concern.  He  took  a 
few  real  books  with  him,  besides  those  that  he  was 
to  "keep."  Double  entry  was  his  business;  read 
ing,  his  recreation;  thinking,  his  vocation.  From  all 
this  the  great  war  called  him  as  with  a  trumpet. 

"Look  here,  you  fellows,"  he  said  quietly,  "in 
spite  of  this  war  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  there  are  some 
good  things  in  German." 

"What,"  they  cried,  "y°u»  a  fire-eater,  stand 
up  for  the  Kaiser  and  his  language?  Damn 


"With  all  my  heart,"  assented  Mitchell.  "But 
the  language  isn't  his.  It  existed  a  long  while  before 
he  was  born.  It  isn't  very  pretty,  I'll  admit.  But 
there  are  lots  of  fine  things  in  it.  Kant  and  Les- 
sing,  Goethe  and  Schiller  and  Heine  —  they  all  loved 
liberty  and  made  it  shine  out  in  their  work.  Do  you 
mean  to  say  that  I  must  give  them  up  and  throw 
my  German  overboard  because  these  modern  Pots- 
dammers  have  acted  like  brutes?" 

"Yes,"  cried  Phipps-Herrick  and  Rosenlaube, 
nodding  at  each  other,  "that's  what  we  mean,  and 
143 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

that's  what  America  means.  The  German  language 
must  go!" 

"Look  here,"  said  Phipps-Herrick,  "you  admit 
that  modern  education  must  be  useful  ?  Well,  there 
won't  be  any  more  use  for  German,  because  we  are 
going  to  shut  Germany  out  of  the  international 
trades-union.  She  has  betrayed  the  principles  of 
the  new  era.  We  are  going  to  boycott  her." 

"Won't  that  be  rather  difficult?"  queried  Mitch 
ell,  shaking  his  head.  "Seventy  or  eighty  million 
people — hard  to  shut  them  out  of  the  world,  eh?" 

"Nonsense,  dear  Phil,"  drawled  Rosenlaube;  "it 
will  be  easy  enough.  But  I  don't  agree  with 
Phipps-Herrick  about  the  reason  or  method.  We 
are  going  to  have  a  new  era  after  the  war.  But  it 
will  not  be  a  utilitarian  age.  It  will  be  a  return  to 
beauty  and  form  and  culture — not  with  a  *k.' 
First  of  all,  we  are  going  to  kill  a  great  many  Ger 
mans.  Then  we  are  going  to  Berlin  to  knock  down 
all  the  ugly  statues  in  the  Sieges-Allee  and  smash 
the  parvenu  German  Empire.  Then  we  shall  have  a 
new  age  on  classic  lines.  People  will  still  use  French 
and  English  and  Italian  because  there  is  some  beauty 
144 


THE    HEARING    EAR 

in  those  languages.  But  nobody  outside  of  Ger 
many  will  speak  or  read  German.  It  is  a  barbarous 
tongue — shapeless  and  hideous — used  by  barbarians 
who  gobble  and  snort  when  they  talk.  Sorry  for 
Kant  and  Goethe  and  Heine  and  all  that  crowd,  but 
their  time  is  up;  they've  got  to  go  out  with  their 
beastly  language ! " 

"Yes,"  said  Phipps-Herrick,  "out  with  them, 
bag  and  baggage.  Think  what  the  German  spies 
and  propagandists  have  done  in  America.  Schools 
full  of  pacifist  and  pro-German  teachers;  text-books 
full  of  praise  of  the  German  Empire  and  the  Hohen- 
zollern  Highbinders;  newspapers  full  of  treason, 
printed  in  the  German  language.  Why,  it's  only 
a  piece  of  self-defense  to  clean  it  all  out,  root  and 
branch.  No  more  German  taught  or  spoken,  printed 
or  read,  in  the  United  States.  Forget  it !  Twenty- 
three  for  the  Hun  language  !" 

"Noble,"  gently  murmured  Mitchell,  shaking 
his  head  again;  "very  noble!  But  not  very  easy 
and  perhaps  not  entirely  wise.  Why  should  I  throw 
away  something  that  has  been  useful  to  me,  and 
may  be  again?  Why  forget  the  little  German  that 
145 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

I  know  and  burn  my  Goethe  and  refuse  to  listen 
to  Beethoven's  music?  I  won't  do  it,  that's  all." 

"Our  little  friend  is  a  concealed  Kaiserite,"  said 
Rosenlaube.  "He  wants  to  Germanize  America." 

"No,  Rosy,"  said  Mitchell,  thoughtfully  run 
ning  his  hand  over  some  nicks  on  the  butt  of  his 
rifle  in  the  corner;  "you  know  I'm  not  a  Kaiserite 
of  any  kind.  I've  got  seven  scored  against  him 
already,  and  I'm  going  to  get  some  more.  But  the 
language  question  seems  to  me  different.  Cut  out 
the  German  newspapers  and  the  German  schools 
in  America  by  all  means  !  No  more  teaching  of  the 
primary  branches  in  any  language  but  English ! 
Make  it  absolutely  necessary  for  everybody  in  the 
TJ.  S.  A.  to  learn  the  language  of  the  country  the 
first  thing.  Then  in  the  high  schools  and  universi 
ties  let  German  be  studied  like  any  other  foreign 
language,  by  those  who  want  it — chemists,  and 
philosophers,  and  historians,  and  electrical  engineers, 
and  so  on.  We  could  censor  the  text-books  and 
keep  out  all  complimentary  allusions  to  the  Hohen- 
zollern  family." 

"Oh,  shut  up,  Phil,"  growled  Phipps-Herrick. 
146 


THE    HEARING    EAR 

"You're  too  soft,  you  old  easy-mark!  You  don't 
go  half  far  enough.  We  may  not  decide  to  exter 
minate  the  Hun  race  in  Europe.  But  we  have  de 
cided  to  exterminate  their  language  in  America." 

His  hand  was  groping  inside  the  biscuit-box. 
He  pulled  out  a  little  ditty-bag  and  carefully  ex 
tracted  a  bit  of  newspaper. 

"Listen  to  this,  you  fellows.  This  is  from  the 
National  Obscurity  Society.  You  know  a  chap 
with  a  German  name  is  president  of  it,  but  he's  a 
real  patriot,  hundred  per  cent,  not  fifty-fifty,  Philly. 
'The  following  States  have  abolished  the  teaching 
of  German:  Massachusetts,  Connecticut,  New 
York,  New  Jersey,  Pennsylvania,  Maryland,  Vir 
ginia,  Georgia,  Mississippi,  Indiana,  Ohio,  Illinois, 
Nebraska,  Missouri,  Kansas,  Iowa,  Arkansas,  Ari 
zona,  Colorado,  Montana,  California,  and  Oregon.' 
Abolished,  mind  you !  What  do  you  think  of  that  ?  " 

"Most  excellent  Phippick,"  nodded  Rosenlaube, 
"I  opine,  as  Horace  said  to  Cicero,  'That's  the  stuff,' 
or  words  to  that  effect.  What  saith  the  senator 
fromMitchellville?" 

"Noble,"  grinned  Phil,  "unmistakably  noble! 
147 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

Those  Obscurity  fellows  are  a  fiery  lot.  It  reminds 
me  that  during  the  late  war  with  Spain,  when  I 
was  a  little,  tiny  boy,  but  brimful  of  ferocity,  I  re 
fused  to  eat  my  favorite  dessert  because  it  was  called 
Spanish  cream.  I  felt  sure  at  the  time  that  my 
heroic  conduct  was  of  distinct  assistance  to  Dewey 
in  the  battle  of  Manila  Bay." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Phipps-Herrick,  grabbing 
him  by  the  shoulders  and  shaking  him  good- 
humoredly,  "you  murderous  little  pacifist  with 
seven  nicks  on  your  gun,  will  you  give  up  your  Ger 
man  ?  Will  you  forget  it  ?  " 

Mitchell  chuckled  and  shook  his  head, 

"As  far  as  requisite  under  military  orders.  But 
no  further,  not  by  a " 

A  pair  of  muddy  boots  was  heard  and  seen  de 
scending  one  of  the  ladders,  followed  by  the  manly 
and  still  rather  neat  form  of  Lieutenant  Barker 
Bunn,  a  Cornell  man  from  West  Philadelphia.  The 
three  men  sprang  to  their  feet  and  saluted  smartly, 
for  the  lieutenant  was  very  stiff  about  all  the  pre 
liminary  forms. 

"Too  loud  talking  here,"  he  said  gruffly.  "I 
148 


THE    HEARING    EAR 

heard  you  before  I  came  down.  Who  is  here  ?  Oh, 
I  see,  Sergeant  Phipps-Herrick,  Privates  Rosen- 
laube  and  Mitchell.  It's  your  turn  to  go  out  on 
listening  post  to-night,  sergeant.  Twelve  sharp, 
stay  three  hours,  go  as  far  as  you  can,  come  back 
and  report,  take  Mitchell  or  Rosenlaube  with  you. 
Captain's  orders." 

The  sergeant  saluted  again,  and  the  two  men 
looked  at  each  other. 

"Why  not  both  of  us,  sir?"  said  Mitchell. 

The  lieutenant  regarded  him  with  some  surprise. 
Listening  post  is  not  a  detail  passionately  desired 
by  the  men.  It  is  always  dirty,  frequently  dan 
gerous,  generally  obscure,  and  often  fatal.  Hence 
there  is  no  keen  competition  for  it. 

"Two  is  the  usual  number  for  a  listening  post," 
said  Barker  Bunn  thoughtfully.  "But  there  is  no 
regulation  about  it,  and  the  captain  did  not  specify 
any  number.  Well,  yes,  I  suppose  you  can  all  three 
go,  if  you  are  set  on  it.  In  fact,  I  give  the  order 
to  that  effect." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Rosenlaube  and  Mitchell. 
Phipps-Herrick,  feeling  that  the  strict  etiquette  of 
149 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

the  preliminaries  had  been  fully  observed  and  the 
time  to  be  human  had  come,  held  out  a  box  of 
"Fierce  Fairies.'* 

"Have  a  cigarette,  Bunn,  and  take  a  chair,  do. 
Time  for  a  little  talk  this  quiet  night  ?  Tell  us  what's 
doing  up  above." 

"Nothing  particular,"  said  Barker  Bunn,  light 
ing  and  relaxing.  "But  the  old  man  has  a  hunch 
that  the  Fritzies  are  grubbing  a  mine — a  corker — 
to  get  our  goat.  Hence  this  business  of  ears  for 
ward.  The  old  man  thinks  the  Fritzies  have  a  strong 
grouch  against  this  little  alley,  and  since  they 
couldn't  take  it  top  side  last  week  they're  going 
to  try  to  bust  it  out  bottom  side  with  a  big  bang 
some  day  soon.  Maybe  so — maybe  just  greens — 
but,  anyway,  you've  got  to  go  on  the  Q.  T.  with 
this  job — no  noise,  don't  even  whisper  unless  you 
have  to;  just  listen  for  all  you're  worth.  P'r'aps 
you'll  hear  that  little  tap-tap-tapping  that  tells 
where  Fritzie  Mole  is  at  work.  Then  if  you  come 
back  and  tell  the  old  man  where  it  is,  he'll  give  you 
all  the  cigarettes  you  want.  But  say,  do  you  want 
me  to  give  you  a  pointer  on  the  way  to  go,  the 
150 


THE    HEARING    EAR 

method  of  procedure,  as  the  old  man  would  call 
it?" 

They  agreed  that  they  were  thirsting  for  informa 
tion  and  instruction. 

"Well,  it's  this  way,"  continued  Barker  Bunn. 
"You  know  I  had  a  bit  of  experience  in  listening 
post  while  I  was  with  the  Canadians  down  around 
'Wipers';  and  I  noticed  that  most  of  the  troubles 
came  from  a  bad  method  of  procedure.  Fellows 
went  out  any  old  way;  followed  each  other  in  the 
dark,  and  then  hunted  for  each  other  and  came  to 
grief;  all  those  kind  of  silly  fumbles.  Now,  what 
you  need  is  formation — see?  Must  have  some 
sort  of  formation  for  advance.  Must  keep  in 
touch.  For  two  men  a  tandem  is  right.  For  three 
men,  what  you  want  is  a  spike-team — middle 
man  crawls  ahead,  other  men  follow  on  each  side 
just  near  enough  to  touch  his  left  heel  with  right 
hand  and  right  heel  with  left  hand — a  triangle,  see  ? 
Keep  touching  once  every  thirty  seconds.  If  you 
miss  it,  leader  crawls  back,  side  men  crawl  in,  sure 
to  meet,  nobody  gets  lost.  Go  as  far  as  you  can, 
then  spread  out  like  a  fan,  fold  together  when  you 
151 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

can,  come  back  if  you  can — that's  the  way  to  cover 
the  most  possible  ground  on  a  listening  post.  Do 
you  get  me  ?  " 

"We  get  you,"  they  nodded.  "It's  a  wonderful 
scheme."  And  Rosenlaube  added  in  his  most  im 
pressive  literary  manner:  "Plato,  it  must  be  so, 
thou  reasonest  well." 

"But  tell  me,"  said  the  lieutenant,  "what  were 
you  fellows  chattering  about  so  loud  when  I  came 
down?" 

So  they  told  him,  and,  according  to  the  habit 
of  college  boys,  they  skirmished  over  the  ground 
of  debate  again,  and  Barker  Bunn  vigorously  sup 
ported  the  majority  opinion,  and  Mitchell  was  left 
in  a  hopeless  minority  of  one,  clinging  obstinately 
to  his  faith  that  there  had  been,  and  still  might  be, 
some  use  for  the  German  language. 

Midnight  came,  and  with  it  the  return  of  the 
lieutenant's  official  manner.  He  saw  the  trio  slide 
over  the  top,  one  by  one,  vanishing  in  the  starless 
dark.  "Good  luck  going  and  coming,"  he  whis 
pered;  and  it  sounded  almost  like  an  unofficial 
prayer. 

152 


THE    HEARING    EAR 

In  single  file  they  crept  through  the  prepared 
opening  in  the  barbed-wire  entanglement,  and  so 
out  into  No  Man's  Land,  where  they  took  up  their 
spike-team  formation.  Phipps-Herrick  was  the 
leader,  the  other  men  were  the  wheelers.  They 
had  agreed  on  a  code  of  silent  signals:  One  kick 
with  the  heel  or  one  pinch  with  the  hand  meant 
"stop";  two  meant  "back";  three  meant  "get 
together."  They  carried  no  rifles,  because  the  rifle 
is  an  awkward  tool  for  a  noiseless  crawler  to  lug. 
But  each  man  had  a  big  trench-knife  and  a  pair 
of  automatic  pistols,  with  plenty  of  ammunition. 

The  space  between  the  two  front  lines  of  barbed 
wire  in  this  region  was  not  more  than  four  or  five 
hundred  yards.  In  the  murk  of  that  unstarred, 
drizzling  night,  where  every  inch  must  be  felt  out,  it 
seemed  like  a  vast,  horrible  territory.  There  was 
nothing  monotonous  about  it  but  the  blackness  of 
darkness.  To  the  touch  it  was  a  paysage  accident^ 
a  landscape  full  of  surprises.  Dead  bodies  were 
sprinkled  over  it.  It  was  pockmarked  with  small 
shell-holes  and  pitted  with  large  craters,  many  of 
them  full  of  water,  all  slimy  with  mud.  Phipps- 
153 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

Herrick  nearly  slipped  into  one  of  the  deepest,  but 
a  lively  kick  warned  his  followers  of  the  danger, 
and  they  pulled  him  back  by  the  heels. 

Now  and  then  a  star-shell  looped  across  the 
spongy  sky,  casting  a  lurid  illumination  over  the 
ghastly  field.  When  the  three  travellers  caught 
the  soft  swish  of  its  ascent,  they  "froze" — motion 
less  as  a  shamming  'possum — mimicking  death 
among  the  dead. 

It  was  a  long,  slow,  silent,  revolting  crawl. 
Sounds  which  did  not  concern  them  were  plenty — 
distant  cannonade,  shells  exploding  here  and  there, 
scattered  rifle-shots.  All  these  they  unconsciously 
eliminated,  listening  for  something  else,  ears  pressed 
to  the  ground  wherever  they  could  find  a  compara 
tively  dry  spot.  From  their  point  of  hearing  the 
night  was  still  as  the  grave — no  subterranean  tap 
ping  and  scraping  could  they  hear  anywhere  under 
the  sea  of  mud. 

Once  Rosenlaube  caught  a  faint  metallic  sound, 

and  signalled  through  Phipps-Herrick's  left  leg  to 

Mitchell's  left  arm,   "Stop!"     All  three  listened 

tensely.    They  crawled  toward  the  faint  noise.    It 

154 


THE    HEARING    EAR 

was  made  by  a  loose  end  of  wire  swaying  in  the 
night-wind  and  tapping  on  a  broken  helmet. 

They  were  getting  close  to  the  German  barbed 
wire.  The  leader  had  swung  around  to  the  west, 
following  what  he  judged  to  be  the  line  of  the  front 
trench,  perhaps  forty  yards  away.  He  was  de 
termined  to  hear  something  before  he  went  back. 
And  he  did ! 

Just  as  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  call  up  the 
other  fellows  for  the  final  spreadout  in  fan  forma 
tion,  his  groping  right  hand  touched  something 
round  and  smooth  and  hard.  It  seemed  to  be  made 
fast  to  a  string  or  wire,  but  he  pulled  it  toward  him 
and  gave  the  "stop"  signal  to  his  followers. 

The  thing  he  had  picked  up  was  a  telephone  re 
ceiver.  How  it  came  to  be  there  he  did  not  know. 
Perhaps  a  German  listening  post  had  carried  it  out 
last  night,  in  order  to  receive  directions  from  the 
trench;  perhaps  the  mining  party — man  killed,  re 
ceiver  dropped,  wire  connection  not  cut,  or  tangled 
up  with  other  wires — who  can  tell?  One  thing  is 
sure — here  is  the  receiver,  faintly  buzzing.  Phipps- 
Herrick  joyfully  puts  it  to  his  ear.  He  hears  a  voice 
155 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

and  words,  but  it  is  all  gibberish  to  him.  With  a 
look  of  desperation  on  his  face  he  gives  the  "get 
together"  signal. 

Rosenlaube  crawls  up  first  and  takes  hold  of  the 
cylinder,  puts  it  to  his  ear.  He  hears  the  sound, 
but  it  says  absolutely  nothing  to  him.  It  is  like 
being  at  the  door  of  the  secret  of  the  universe  and 
unable  to  get  over  the  threshold. 

Then  conies  Mitchell,  slowly,  a  little  lame,  and 
almost  "all  in."  Phipps-Herrick  thrusts  the  re 
ceiver  into  his  hand.  As  he  listens  a  beatific  ex 
pression  spreads  over  his  face.  It  lasts  a  long  time, 
and  then  he  lays  down  the  cylinder  with  a  sigh. 

The  three  heads  are  close  together,  and  Mitchell 
whispers  under  his  breath: 

"Got  'em — got  the  whole  thing — line  of  mine 
changed — raiders  coming  out  now — twelve  men — 
rough  on  us,  but  if  we  can  get  back  to  our  alley 
we've  got  'em  !  Crawl  home  quick." 

They   crawled   together   in   a   bunch,   formation 

ignored.     Presently  steps  sounded  near  them.     A 

swift  light  swept  the  hole  where  they  crouched, 

a  volley  of  rifle-shots  crashed  into  it.     The  Amer- 

156 


'I'm  going  to  carry  you  in,  'spite  of  hell. 


THE    HEARING    EAR 

icans  answered  with  their  pistols,  and  saw  three  or 
four  of  the  dark  forms  on  the  edge  of  the  hole  topple 
over.  The  rest  disappeared.  But  Rosenlaube  had 
a  rifle-ball  through  his  right  hip  and  another  through 
his  shoulder.  Mitchell  and  Phipps-Herrick  started 
to  carry  him. 

"Drop  it,"  he  whispered.  "I'm  safe  here  till 
dawn — you  get  home,  quick !  Specially  Phil.  He's 
the  one  that  counts.  Cut  away,  boys  ! " 

Meantime  the  American  trench  had  opened  fire 
and  the  German  trench  answered.  The  still  night 
broke  into  a  tempest  of  noise.  A  bullet  or  a  bit 
of  shell  caught  Mitchell  in  the  knee  and  crumpled 
him  up.  Phipps-Herrick  lifted  him  on  his  back 
and  stood  up. 

"Come  on,"  he  said,  "y°u  little  cuss.  You're 
the  only  one  that  has  the  stuff  we  went  out  after. 
I'm  going  to  carry  you  in,  'spite  of  hell." 

And  he  did  it. 

Mitchell  told  the  full  story  of  the  change  in  the 

direction  of  the  German  mine  and  the  plan  of  the 

next  assault,  as  he  had  heard  it  through  that  lost 

receiver.     The  captain  said  it  was  information  of 

157 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

the  highest  value.  It  counted  up  to  a  couple  of 
hundred  German  prisoners  and  three  machine- 
guns  in  the  next  two  days. 

Rosenlaube,  still  alive,  was  brought  in  just  be 
fore  daybreak  by  a  volunteer  rescue-party  under 
the  guidance  of  Phipps-Herrick.  All  three  were 
cited  in  the  despatches.  Phipps-Herrick  in  due 
time  received  the  Distinguished  Service  Cross  for 
gallantry  on  the  field.  But  Mitchell  had  the  sur 
plus  satisfaction  of  the  hearing  ear. 

"Look  here,  old  man,"  Rosenlaube  said  to  him 
as  they  lay  side  by  side  in  the  hospital,  "'member 
our  talk  in  the  dugout  just  before  our  big  night? 
Well,  I  allow  there  was  something  in  what  you  said. 
There  are  times  when  it  is  a  good  thing  to  know 
a  bit  of  that  barbarous  German  language.  And 
you  never  can  tell  when  one  of  those  times  may 
hit  you." 


158 


SKETCHES    OF    QUEBEC 


SKETCHES    OF    QUEBEC 

IF  you  love  a  certain  country,  for  its  natural 
beauty,  or  for  the  friends  you  have  made  there, 
or  for  the  happy  days  you  have  passed  within  its 
borders,  you  are  troubled  and  distressed  when  that 
country  conies  under  criticism,  suspicion,  and  re 
proach. 

It  is  just  as  it  would  be  if  a  woman  who  had  been 
very  kind  to  you  and  had  done  you  a  great  deal 
of  good  were  accused  of  some  unworthiness.  You 
would  refuse  to  believe  it.  You  would  insist  on 
understanding  before  you  pronounced  judgment. 
Memories  would  ask  to  be  heard. 

That  is  what  I  feel  in  regard  to  French  Canada, 
the  province  of  Quebec,  where  I  have  had  so  many 
joyful  times,  and  found  so  many  true  comrades 
among  the  voyageurs,  the  habitants,  and  the  coureurs 
de  bois. 

People  are  saying  now  that  Quebec  is  not  loyal, 
not  brave,  not  patriotic  in  this  war  for  freedom 
and  humanity. 

161 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

Even  if  the  accusation  were  true,  of  course  it 
would  not  spoil  the  big  woods,  the  rushing  rivers, 
the  sparkling  lakes,  the  friendly  mountains  of  French 
Canada.  But  all  the  same,  it  hurts  me  to  hear  such 
a  charge  against  my  friends  of  the  forest. 

Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  Frangois  and  Fer 
dinand  and  Louis  and  Jean  and  Eugene  and  Iside 
are  not  true  men?  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that 
these  lumbermen  who  steer  big  logs  down  steep 
places,  these  trappers  who  brave  the  death-cold  grip 
of  Winter,  these  canoe-men  who  shout  for  joy  as 
they  run  the  foaming  rapids, — do  you  mean  to  tell 
me  that  they  have  no  courage? 

I  am  not  ready  to  credit  that.  I  want  to  hear 
what  they  have  to  say  for  themselves.  And  in 
listening  for  that  testimony  certain  little  remem 
brances  come  to  me — not  an  argument — only  a  few 
sketches  on  the  wall.  Here  they  are.  Take  them 
for  what  they  are  worth. 


162 


SKETCHES    OF    QUEBEC 


LA  GRANDE  DECHARGE 
September,  1894 

IN  one  of  the  long  stillwaters  of  the  mighty  stream 
that  rushes  from  Lac  Saint  Jean  to  make  the  Sa- 
guenay — below  the  lie  Maligne  and  above  the 
cataract  of  Chicoutimi — two  birch-bark  canoes  are 
floating  quietly,  descending  with  rhythmic  strokes 
of  the  paddle,  through  the  luminous  northern  twi 
light. 

The  chief  guide,  Jean  Morel,  is  a  coureur  de  bois 
of  the  old  type — broad-shouldered,  red-bearded,  a 
fearless  canoeman,  a  good  hunter  and  fisherman — 
simple  of  speech  and  deep  of  heart:  a  good  man 
to  trust  in  the  rapids. 

"Tell  me,  Jean,"  I  ask  in  the  comfortable  leisure 
of  our  voyage  which  conduces  to  pipe-smoking  and 
conversation,  "tell  me,  are  you  a  Frenchman  or 
an  Englishman?" 

"Not  the  one,  nor  the  other,"  answers  Jean  in 
his  old-fashioned  patois.  "M'sieu*  knows  I  am 
French-Canadian. ' ' 

163 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

A  remarkable  answer,  when  you  come  to  think 
of  it;  for  it  claims  a  nationality  which  has  never 
existed,  and  is  not  likely  to  exist,  except  in  a  dream. 

"Well,  then,"  I  say,  following  my  impulse  of 
psychological  curiosity,  of  which  Jean  is  sublimely 
ignorant,  "suppose  a  war  should  come  between 
France  and  England.  On  which  side  would  you 
fight?" 

Jean  knocks  the  dottle  out  of  his  pipe,  refills  and 
relights.  Then,  between  the  even  strokes  of  his 
paddle,  he  makes  this  extraordinary  reply: 

"M'sieu,  I  suppose  my  body  would  march  under 
the  flag  of  England.  But  my  heart  would  march  under 
the  flag  of  France." 

Good  old  Jean  Morel !  You  had  no»  premonition 
of  this  glorious  war  in  which  the  Tricolor  and  the 
Union  Jack  would  advance  together  against  the 
ravening  black  eagle  of  Germany,  and  the  Stars 
and  Stripes  would  join  them. 

How  should  you  know  anything  about  it  ?    Your 

log  cabin  was  your  capitol.    Your  little  family  was 

your  council  of  state.    Even  the  rest  of  us,  proud 

of  our  university  culture,  were  too  blind,  in  those 

164 


SKETCHES    OF    QUEBEC 

late  Victorian  days,  to  see  the  looming  menace  of 
Prussian  paganism  and  the  conquer-lust  of  the 
Hohenzollerns,  which  has  plunged  the  whole  world 
in  war. 

II 

x    OXFORD 
February,  1917 

THE  "Schools"  building,  though  modern,  is  one 
of  the  stateliest  on  the  Main  Street.  Here,  in  old 
peaceful  times,  the  university  examinations  used 
to  be  held.  Now  it  is  transformed  into  a  hospital 
for  the  wounded  men  from  the  fighting  front  of 
freedom. 

Sir  William  Osier,  Canadian,  and  world-renowed 
physician,  is  my  guide,  an  old  friend  in  Baltimore, 
now  Regius  Professor  of  Medicine  in  Oxford. 

"Come,"  he  says,  "I  want  you  to  see  an  example 
of  the  Carrel  treatment  of  wounds." 

The  patient  is  sitting  up  in  bed — a  fine  young 

fellow  about  twenty  years  old.     A  shrapnel-shell, 

somewhere  in  France,  passed  over  his  head  and 

burst  just  behind  him.    His  bare  back  is  a  mass  of 

165 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

scars.  The  healing  fluid  is  being  pumped  in  through 
the  shattered  elbow  of  his  right  arm,  not  yet  out 
of  danger. 

"Does  it  hurt,"  I  ask. 

"Not  much,"  he  answers,  trying  to  smile,  "at 
least  not  too  much,  M'sieu'." 

The  accent  of  French  Canada  is  unmistakable. 
I  talk  to  him  in  his  own  dialect. 

"What  part  of  Quebec  do  you  come  from?" 

"From  Trois  Rivieres,  M'sieu',  or  rather  from  a 
country  back  of  that,  the  Saint  Maurice  River." 

"I  know  it  well — often  hunted  there.  But  what 
made  you  go  to  the  war?" 

"I  heard  that  England  fought  to  save  France 
from  the  damned  Germans.  That  was  enough, 
M'sieu',  to  make  me  march.  Besides,  I  always 
liked  to  fight." 

"What  did  you  do  before  you  became  a  sol 
dier?" 

"I  was  a  lumberjack." 

(What  he  really  said  was,  "J'allais  en  chantier" 
"I  went  in  the  shanty."  If  he  had  spoken  in  classic 
French  he  would  have  said,  "J'etais  bucheron" 
166 


'I  was  a  lumberjack. 


SKETCHES    OF    QUEBEC 

How  it  brought  back  the  smell  of  the  big  spruce 
forest  to  hear  that  word  chantier,  in  Oxford !) 

"Well,  then,  I  suppose  you  will  return  to  the 
wood-cutting  again,  when  this  war  is  over." 

"But  no,  M'sieu',  how  can  I,  with  this  good-for- 
nothing  arm  ?  I  shall  never  be  capable  of  swinging 
the  axe  again." 

"But  you  could  be  the  cook,  perfectly.  And 
you  know  the  cook  gets  the  best  pay  in  the  whole 
shanty." 

His  face  lights  up  a  little. 

"Truly,"  he  replies;  "I  never  thought  of  that, 
but  it  is  true.  I  have  seen  a  bit  of  cooking  at  the 
front  and  learned  some  things.  I  might  take  up 
that  end  of  the  job.  But  anyway,  I'm  glad  I  went 
to  the  war." 

So  we  say  good-by — "bonne  chance!" 

Since  that  day  the  good  physician  who  guided 
me  through  the  hospital  has  borne  without  a  mur 
mur  the  greatest  of  all  sacrifices — the  loss  of  his 
only  son,  a  brave  and  lovely  boy,  killed  in  action 
against  the  thievish,  brutal  German  hordes. 


167 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 
III 

SAINTE  MARGUERITE 
August,  1917 

THE  wild  little  river  Sainte  Marguerite  runs  joy 
ously  among  the  mountains  and  the  green  woods, 
back  of  the  Saguenay,  singing  the  same  old  song 
of  liberty  and  obedience  to  law,  as  if  the  world  had 
never  been  vexed  and  tortured  by  the  madness  of 
war-lords. 

A  tired  man  who  has  a  brief  furlough  from  active 
service  is  lucky  if  he  can  spend  it  among  the  big 
trees  and  beside  a  flowing  stream.  The  trees  are 
ministers  of  peace.  The  stream  is  full  of  courage 
and  adventure  as  it  rushes  toward  the  big  sea. 

We  are  coming  back  to  camp  from  the  morn 
ing's  fishing,  with  a  brace  of  good  salmon  in  the 
canoe. 

"Tell  me,  Iside,"  I  ask  of  the  wiry  little  bowman, 
the  best  hunter  and  fisher  on  the  river,  "why  is  it 
that  you  are  not  at  the  war  ?  " 

"But,  M'sieu',  I  am  too  old.  A  father  of  family 
— almost  a  grandfather — the  war  is  not  for  men 
168 


SKETCHES    OF    QUEBEC 

of  that  age.  Besides,  it  does  not  concern  us  here 
in  Quebec." 

"Why  not?  It  concerns  the  whole  world.  Who 
told  you  that  it  does  not  concern  you  ?  " 

"The  priest  at  our  village  of  Sacr6  Cceur,  M'sieu*. 
He  says  that  it  is  only  right  and  needful  for  a  good 
Christian  to  fight  in  defense  of  his  home  and  his 
church.  Let  those  Germans  attack  us  here,  chez 
nous,  and  you  shall  see  how  the  men  of  SacrS  Cceur 
will  stand  up  and  fight." 

It  was  an  amazing  revelation  of  a  state  of  mind, 
absolutely  simple,  perfectly  sincere,  and  strictly 
imprisoned  by  the  limitations  of  its  only  recognized 
teacher. 

"But  suppose,  Iside,  that  England  and  France 
should  be  beaten  down  by  Germany,  over  there. 
What  would  happen  to  French  Canada?  Do  you 
think  you  could  stand  alone  then,  to  defend  your 
home  and  your  church?  Are  you  big  enough,  you 
French-Canadians  ?  " 

"M'sieu',  I  have  never  thought  of  that.  Per 
haps  we  have  more  than  a  million  people — many 
of  them  children,  for  you  understand  we  French- 
169 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

Canadians  have  large  families — but  of  course  the 
children  could  not  fight.  Still,  we  should  not  like 
to  have  them  subject  to  a  German  Emperor.  We 
would  fight  against  that,  if  the  war  came  to  us  here 
on  our  own  soil." 

"But  don't  you  see  that  the  only  way  to  keep 
it  from  coming  to  you  on  your  own  soil  is  to  fight 
against  it  over  there  ?  Hasn't  the  English  Govern 
ment  given  you  all  your  liberties,  for  home  and 
church?" 

"Yes,  M'sieu',  especially  since  Sir  Wilfred  Laurier. 
Ah,  that  is  a  great  man !  A  true  French-Canadian ! " 

"Well,  then,  you  know  that  he  is  against  Ger 
many.  You  know  he  believes  the  freedom  of  Canada 
depends  on  the  defeat  of  Germany,  over  there,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  sea.  You  would  not  like  a 
German  Canada,  would  you?" 

"Not  at  all,  M'sieu',  that  would  be  intolerable. 
But  I  have  never  thought  of  that." 

"Well,  think  of  it  now,  will  you?    And  tell  your 

priest  to  think  of  it,  too.    He  is  a  Christian.    The 

things  we  are  fighting  for  belong  to  Christianity — 

justice,  liberty,  humanity.    Tell  him  that,  and  tell 

170 


SKETCHES    OF    QUEBEC 

him  also  some  of  the  things  which  the  Germans 
did  to  the  Christian  people  in  Belgium  and  Northern 
France.  I  will  narrate  them  to  you  later." 

"M'sieu',"  says  Iside,  dipping  his  paddle  deeper 
as  we  round  the  sharp  corner  of  a  rock,  "I  shall 
remember  all  that  you  tell  me,  and  I  shall  tell  it 
again  to  our  priest.  You  know  we  have  few  news 
papers  here.  Most  of  us  could  not  read  them,  any 
way.  I  am  not  well  convinced  that  we  yet  com 
prehend,  here  in  French  Canada,  the  meaning  of 
this  war.  But  we  shall  endeavor  to  comprehend 
it  better.  And  when  we  comprehend,  we  shall  be 
ready  to  do  our  duty — you  can  trust  yourself  to 
the  men  of  SacrS  Cceur  for  that.  We  love  peace — 
we  all  about  here  (nous  autres  d'i$ite) — but  we  can 
fight  like  the  devil  when  we  know  it  is  for  a  good  cause 
— liberty,  for  example.  Meanwhile  would  M'sieu' 
like  to  stop  at  the  pool  'La  Pinette'  on  the  way  down 
and  try  a  couple  of  casts  ?  There  was  a  big  salmon 
rising  there  yesterday." 

That  very  evening  a  runner  comes  up  the  river, 
through  the  woods,  to  tell  Iside  and  Eugene,  who  are 
Selectmen  of  the  community  of  SacrS  Cceur,  that 
171 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

they  must  come  down  to  the  village  for  an  important 
meeting  at  ten  o'clock  the  next  morning. 

So  they  set  off,  quite  as  a  matter  of  course,  for 
their  thirty-five  mile  tramp  through  the  forest  in 
the  dark.  They  are  good  citizens,  as  well  as  good 
woodsmen,  you  understand.  On  the  second  day 
they  are  back  again  at  their  work  in  the  canoe. 

"Well,  Iside,"  I  ask,  "how  was  it  with  the  meet 
ing  yesterday?  All  correct?" 

"All  correct,  M'sieu*.  It  was  an  affair  of  a  new 
schoolhouse.  We  are  going  to  build  it.  All  goes 
well.  We  are  beginning  to  comprehend.  Quebec 
is  a  large  corner  of  the  world.  But  it  is  only  a  corner, 
after  all,  we  can  see  that.  And  those  damned  Ger 
mans  who  do  such  terrible  things  in  France,  we 
do  not  love  them  at  all,  no  matter  what  the  priest 
may  say  about  Christian  charity.  They  are  Protes 
tants,  M'sieu',  is  it  not?" 

"Well,"  I  answer,  hiding  a  smile  with  a  large 
puff  of  smoke,  "some  of  them  call  themselves  Protes 
tants  and  some  call  themselves  Catholics.  But  it 
seems  to  me  they  are  all  infidels,  heathen — judg 
ing  by  what  they  do.  That  is  the  real  proof." 


SKETCHES    OF    QUEBEC 

"C'est  Ven  vrai,  M'sieu'"  says  Iside.    "It  is  the 
conduct  that  shows  the  Christian." 


IV 

BELOW   CAPE  DIAMOND 
March,  1818 

THE  famous  citadel  of  Quebec  stands  on  top  of 
the  steep  hill  that  dominates  the  junction  of  the 
Saint  Charles  River  with  the  Saint  Lawrence.  That 
is  Cape  Diamond — a  natural  stronghold.  Indians 
and  French,  and  British,  and  Americans  have  fought 
for  that  coign  of  vantage.  For  a  century  and  a 
half  the  Union  Jack  has  floated  there,  and  under 
its  fair  protection  the  Province  of  Quebec,  keeping 
its  quaint  old  language  and  peasant  customs,  has 
become  an  important  part  of  the  British  Empire. 

The  Upper  Town,  on  the  high  shoulders  of  Cape 
Diamond,  with  its  government  buildings,  convents, 
hospitals,  showy  new  shops,  and  ancient  gardens, 
its  archiepiscopal  palace,  trim  theological  semi 
nary,  huge  castle-like  hotel,  and  placid  ramparts 
dominating  the  He  (TOrUans  with  rows  of  anti- 
173 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

quated,  harmless  cannon  around  which  the  chil 
dren  play — the  Upper  Town  belongs  distinctly  to 
the  citadel.  The  garrison  is  in  evidence  here.  A 
regimental  band  plays  in  the  kiosk  on  Dufferin 
Terrace  on  summer  evenings.  There  is  a  good  mix 
ture  of  khaki  in  the  coloring  of  the  street  crowd, 
and  many  wounded  soldiers  are  seen,  invalided  home 
from  the  front.  They  are  all  very  proud  of  the 
glorious  record  that  Canada  has  made  in  the  battle 
for  freedom.  Most  of  them,  it  seems  to  me,  are 
from  English-speaking  families.  But  by  no  means 
all.  There  are  many  of  unmistakable  French-Cana 
dian  stock;  and  they  tell  me  proudly  of  the  notable 
bravery  of  a  certain  regiment  which  was  formed 
early  from  volunteers  of  their  own  people — hunters, 
woodsmen,  farmers,  guides.  The  war  does  not 
seem  very  far  away,  up  here  in  the  region  of  the 
citadel. 

The  Lower  Town,  with  its  narrow  streets,  little 
shops,  gray  stone  warehouses,  dingy  tenements, 
and  old-fashioned  markets,  is  quite  a  different  place. 
It  belongs  to  the  slow  rivers  on  whose  banks  it 
drowses  and  dreams.  The  once  prosperous  lumber 
yards  are  half  empty  now.  The  shipping  along  the 
174 


SKETCHES    OF    QUEBEC 

wharfs  has  been  dwindling  for  many  years.  The 
northern  winter  puts  a  quietus  on  the  waterside. 
Troops,  munitions,  supplies,  must  go  down  by  rail 
to  an  ice-free  port.  The  white  river-boats  are  all 
laid  up.  But  a  way  is  kept  open  across  the  river 
to  Levis,  and  the  sturdy,  snub-nosed  little  ice-break 
ing  ferry-boats  buffet  back  and  forth  almost  with 
out  interruption.  There  is  a  plenty  of  nothing  to 
do,  now,  in  the  Lower  Town;  pipe-smoking  and 
heated  discussion  of  parish  politics  are  incessant; 
an  inconsiderate  quantity  of  bad  liquor  is  imbibed, 
pour  faire  passer  le  temps. 

Suddenly — if  anything  can  be  said  to  happen 
suddenly  in  Quebec — bad  news  comes  from  the 
Lower  Town.  A  riot  has  broken  out,  an  insurrec 
tion  of  the  French-Canadians  against  the  new  mili 
tary  service  act,  an  armed  resistance  to  the  draft. 
Windows  have  been  smashed,  shops  looted.  A 
mob,  not  very  large  perhaps,  but  extremely  noisy, 
has  marched  up  the  steep  curve  of  Mountain  Hill 
Street,  into  the  Upper  Town.  Shots  have  been 
exchanged.  People  have  been  killed.  The  revo 
lution  in  Quebec  has  begun. 

That  is  the  disquieting  rumor  which  comes  to 
175 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

us,  carefully  spread  and  magnified  by  those  agencies 
which  have  an  interest  in  preventing,  or  at  least 
obstructing  the  righteous  punishment  of  the  German 
criminals  in  this  war.  Can  it  possibly  be  true? 
Have  the  French-Canadians  gone  crazy,  as  the  Irish 
did  in  1916,  under  the  lunatic  incantations  of  the 
Sinn-Feiners  ?  Are  they  also  people  without  a  coun 
try,  playing  blindly  into  the  hands  of  the  Prussian 
gang  who  have  set  out  to  subjugate  the  world  ? 

No !  This  riot  in  the  old  city  is  not  an  expression 
of  the  spirit  of  French  Canada  at  all.  It  is  only 
a  shrewdly  stupid  trick  in  local  politics,  planned 
and  staged  by  small-minded  and  loud-voiced  poli 
ticians  who  are  trying  to  keep  their  hold  upon  the 
province.  The  so-called  revolutionists  are  either 
imported  loafers  and  trouble-makers,  or  else  they 
are  drawn  from  that  class  of  "hooligans"  who  have 
always  made  a  noise  around  the  Quebec  hotels  at 
night.  They  shout  much:  they  swear  abominably: 
but  they  have  no  real  fight  in  them.  They  can  be 
hired  and  used — up  to  a  certain  point — but  beyond 
that  they  are  worthless.  It  is  a  waste  of  money 
to  employ  them.  The  trouble  below  Cape  Diamond 
176 


SKETCHES    OF    QUEBEC 

froths  up  and  goes  down  as  quickly  as  the  efferves 
cence  on  a  bottle  of  ginger  beer.  Before  you  can 
find  out  what  it  is  all  about,  it  is  all  over.  It  has 
not  even  touched  the  real  French-Canadians,  the 
men  of  the  forests  and  the  farms.  They  are  loyal 
by  nature,  and  slow  by  temperament.  You  have 
got  to  give  them  time,  and  light. 

What  is  happening  in  Quebec  now?  Just  what 
ought  to  happen.  The  draft  is  going  forward 
smoothly  and  steadily,  without  resistance.  Sons 
of  the  best  French-Canadian  families  are  volun 
teering  for  the  war.  Recruits  from  Laval  University 
are  coming  in,  stirred  perhaps  by  the  knowledge 
that  forty  thousand  Catholic  priests  in  France  have 
entered  the  army  which  fights  against  the  Prus 
sian  paganism. 

The  petty  politicians  who  have  sought  to  serve 
their  own  ends  by  putting  forward  the  mad  notion 
of  secession  and  an  independent  "Republic  of  Que 
bec"  have  gone  to  cover  under  a  storm  of  ridicule 
and  indignation.  M.  Bourassa's  iridescent  dream 
of  French-Canadian  nationalism  has  disappeared 
like  a  soap-bubble.  M.  Francceur's  motion  in  the 
177 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

Quebec  legislature,  carrying  a  vague  hint  that  the 
province  might  withdraw  from  the  Dominion  if 
the  other  provinces  were  not  particularly  nice  to 
it,  was  snowed  under  by  an  overwhelming  vote. 
The  patriotic  and  eloquent  speech  of  the  provincial 
Premier,  M.  Gouin,  was  received  with  every  sign 
of  approval.  The  political  cinema  has  shown  its 
latest  film,  and  the  title  is  evidently  "Fidelite  de 
Qutbec" 

Meantime  a  Catholic  missioner  has  been  in  the 
province.  The  visit  of  Archbishop  Mathieu  of 
Saskatchewan  was  probably  made  on  the  invita 
tion,  certainly  with  the  consent,  of  the  hierarchy 
of  Quebec.  That  intelligent  and  fearless  preacher 
brought  with  him  a  clear  and  ringing  gospel,  a  call 
to  all  Christian  folk  to  stand  up  together  and  "re 
sist  even  unto  blood,  striving  against  sin" — the 
sin  of  the  German  war-lords  who  have  plunged 
the  world  in  agony  to  enforce  their  heresy  that 
Might  makes  Right. 

Such  a  message,  at  this  time,  must  be  of  inesti 
mable  value  to  the  humble  and  devout  people  of  the 
province,  attached  as  they  are  to  their  church,  and 
178 


SKETCHES    OF    QUEBEC 

looking  patiently  to  her  for  guidance.  The  parish 
priests,  devoted  to  their  lonely  tasks  in  obscure 
hamlets,  may  get  a  new  and  broader  inspiration 
from  it.  They  may  have  a  vision  of  the  ashes  of 
Louvain  University,  the  ruin  of  Rheims  Cathedral, 
wrought  by  ruthless  German  hands.  Then  the 
church  in  Quebec  will  measure  up  to  the  church 
in  Belgium  and  in  France.  Then  the  village  cure 
will  say  to  his  young  men:  "Go!  Fight!  It  is 
for  the  glory  of  God  and  the  good  of  the  world.  It 
is  for  the  Christian  religion  and  the  life  of  free 
Canada." 

"Well,  then,"  says  the  gentle  reader,  of  a  socio 
logical  turn  of  mind,  who  has  followed  me  thus 
far,  "what  have  you  got  to  say  about  the  big 
political  problem  of  Quebec  ?  Is  a  French-speaking 
province  a  safe  factor  in  the  Dominion  of  Can 
ada,  in  the  British  Empire?  Why  was  Quebec 
so  late  in  coming  into  this  world  war  against  Ger 
many  ?  " 

Dear  man,  I  have  nothing  whatever  to  say  about 
what  you  call  the  big  political  problem  of  Quebec. 
179 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

I  told  you  that  at  the  beginning.  That  is  a  ques 
tion  for  Canada  and  Great  Britain  to  settle.  The 
British  colonial  policy  has  always  been  one  of  the 
greatest  liberality  and  fairness,  except  perhaps  in 
that  last  quarter  of  the  eighteenth  century,  when 
the  madness  of  a  German  king  and  his  ministers 
in  England  forced  the  United  States  to  break  away 
from  her,  and  form  the  republic  which  has  now 
become  her  most  powerful  friend. 

The  perpetuation  of  a  double  language  within 
a  state,  an  enclave,  undoubtedly  carries  with  it  an 
element  of  inconvenience  and  possibly  of  danger. 
Yet  Belgium  is  bilingual  and  Switzerland  is  quad- 
rilingual.  If  any  tongue  other  than  that  of  the 
central  government  is  to  be  admitted,  what  could  be 
better  than  French — the  language  of  culture,  which 
has  spoken  the  large  words,  liberte,  egalite,fratemite? 
The  native  dialect  of  French  Canada  is  a  quaint 
and  delightful  thing — an  eighteenth-century  vocab 
ulary  with  pepper  and  salt  from  the  speech  of  the 
woodsmen  and  hunters.  I  should  be  sorry  if  it  had 
to  fade  out.  But  evidently  that  is  a  question  for 
Canada  to  decide.  ^She  has  been  a  bilingual  coun- 
180 


SKETCHES    OF    QUEBEC 

try  for  a  long  time.  I  see  no  reason  why  the  ex 
periment  should  not  be  carried  on. 

Quebec  has  been  rather  slow  in  waking  up  to 
the  meaning  of  this  war  for  world-freedom.  But 
she  has  been  very  little  slower  than  some  of  the 
United  States,  after  all. 

The  Church?  Well,  the  influence  of  the  Church 
always  has  depended  and  always  must  depend  upon 
the  quality  of  her  ministers.  In  France,  in  Belgium, 
they  have  not  fallen  short  of  their  high  duty.  The 
Archbishop  of  Saskatchewan,  who  came  to  Quebec, 
preached  a  clear  gospel  of  self-sacrifice  for  a  right 
eous  cause. 

But  the  plain  people  of  Quebec — the  voyageurs, 
the  habitants,  my  old  friends  in  the  back  districts — 
that  is  what  I  am  thinking  about.  I  am  sure  they 
are  all  right.  They  are  very  simple,  old-fashioned, 
childish,  if  you  like;  but  there  is  no  pacifist  or  pro- 
German  virus  among  them.  If  their  parochial 
politicians  will  let  them  alone,  if  their  priests  will 
speak  to  them  as  prophets  of  the  God  of  Righteous 
ness,  they  will  show  their  mettle.  They  will  prove 
their  right  to  be  counted  among  the  free  peoples 
181 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

of  the  world  who  are  willing  to  defend  peace  with 
arms. 

That  is  what  I  expect  to  find  if  I  ever  get  back 
to  my  canoemen  on  the  Sainte  Marguerite  again. 

SYLVANORA,  July  10,  1918. 


182 


A    CLASSIC    INSTANCE 


A    CLASSIC    INSTANCE 

".LATIN  and  Greek  are  dead,"  said  Hardman, 
lean,  eager,  absolute,  a  fanatic  of  modernity.  "They 
have  been  a  long  while  dying,  and  this  war  has  fin 
ished  them.  We  see  now  that  they  are  useless  in 
the  modern  world.  Nobody  is  going  to  waste  time 
in  studying  them.  Education  must  be  direct  and 
scientific.  Train  men  for  efficiency  and  prepare 
them  for  defense.  Otherwise  they  will  have  no 
chance  of  making  a  living  or  of  keeping  what  they 
make.  Your  classics  are  musty  and  rusty  and  fusty. 
Heraus  mil " 

He  checked  himself  suddenly,  with  as  near  a 
blush  as  his  sallow  skin  could  show. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  stammered;  "bad  habit,  con 
tracted  when  I  was  a  student  at  Kiel — only  place 
where  they  really  understood  metallurgy." 

Professor  John  De  Vries,  round,  rosy,  white- 
haired,  steeped  in  the  mellow  lore  of  ancient  his 
tory,  puffed  his  cigar  and  smiled  that  benignant 
185 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

smile  with  which  he  was  accustomed  joyfully  to 
enter  a  duel  of  wits.  Many  such  conflicts  had  en 
livened  that  low-ceilinged  book-room  of  his  at  Cal- 
vinton. 

"You  are  excused,  my  dear  Hardman,"  he  said, 
"especially  because  you  have  just  given  us  a  valuable 
illustration  of  the  truth  that  language  and  the  study 
of  language  have  a  profound  influence  upon  thought. 
The  tongue  which  you  inadvertently  used  belongs 
to  the  country  that  bred  the  theory  of  education 
which  you  advocate.  The  theory  is  as  crude  and 
imperfect  as  the  German  language  itself.  And  that 
is  saying  a  great  deal." 

Young  Richard  De  Vries,  the  professor's  favorite 
nephew  and  adopted  son,  whose  chief  interest  was 
athletics,  but  who  had  a  very  pretty  side  taste  for 
verbal  bouts,  was  sitting  with  the  older  men  before 
a  cheerful  fire  of  logs  in  the  chilly  spring  of  1917. 
He  tucked  one  leg  comfortably  underneath  him 
and  leaned  forward  in  his  chair,  lighting  a  fresh 
cigarette.  He  foresaw  a  brisk  encounter,  and  was 
delighted,  as  one  who  watches  from  the  side-lines 
the  opening  of  a  lively  game. 
186 


A    CLASSIC    INSTANCE 

"Well  played,  sir,"  he  ejaculated;  "well  played, 
indeed.  Score  one  for  you,  Uncle." 

"The  approbation  of  the  young  is  the  consolation 
of  the  aged,"  murmured  the  professor  sententiously, 
as  if  it  were  a  quotation  from  Plutarch.  "But  let 
us  hear  what  our  friend  Hardman  has  to  say  about 
the  German  language  and  the  Germanic  theory 
of  education.  It  is  his  turn." 

"I  throw  you  in  the  German  language,"  answered 
Hardman,  rather  tartly.  "I  don't  profess  to  ad 
mire  it  or  defend  it.  But  nobody  can  deny  its  utility 
for  the  things  that  are  taught  in  it.  You  can  learn 
more  science  from  half  a  dozen  recent  German  books 
than  from  a  whole  library  of  Latin  and  Greek.  Be 
sides,  you  must  admit  that  the  Germans  are  great 
classical  scholars  too." 

"Rather  neat,"  commented  Dick;  "you  touched 
him  there,  Mr.  Hardman.  Now,  Uncle  ! " 

"I  do  not  admit,"  said  the  professor  firmly,  "that 
the  Germans  are  great  classical  scholars.  They 
are  great  students,  that  is  all.  The  difference  is 
immense.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  deny  the  value  of 
the  patient  and  laborious  researches  of  the  Ger- 
187 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

mans  in  the  grammar  and  syntax  of  the  ancient 
languages  and  in  archaeology.  They  are  painstak 
ing  to  a  painful  degree.  They  gather  facts  as  bees 
gather  pollen,  indefatigably.  But  when  it  comes  to 
making  honey  they  go  dry.  They  cannot  interpret, 
they  can  only  instruct.  They  do  not  comprehend, 
they  only  classify.  Name  me  one  recent  German 
book  of  classical  interpretation  to  compare  in  sweet 
ness  and  light  with  Jowett's  *  Dialogues  of  Plato5 
or  Butcher's  'Some  Aspects  of  the  Greek  Genius' 
or  Croiset's  'Histoire  de  la  Litterature  Grecque/ 
You  can't  do  it,"  he  ended,  with  a  note  of  triumph. 

"Of  course  not,"  replied  Hardman  sharply.  "I 
never  claimed  to  know  anything  about  classical 
literature  or  scholarship.  My  point  at  the  begin 
ning — you  have  cleverly  led  the  discussion  away 
from  it,  like  one  of  your  old  sophists — the  point 
I  made  was  that  Greek  and  Latin  are  dead  languages, 
and  therefore  practically  worthless  in  the  modern 
world.  Let  us  go  back  to  that  and  discuss  it  fairly 
and  leave  the  Germans  out." 

"But  that,  my  dear  fellow,  is  precisely  what  you 
cannot  do.  It  is  partly  because  they  have  insisted 
188 


A    CLASSIC    INSTANCE 

on  treating  Latin  and  Greek  as  dead  that  the  Ger 
mans  have  become  what  they  are — spectacled  bar 
barians,  learned  Huns,  veneered  Vandals.  In  older 
times  it  was  not  so  bad.  They  had  some  percep 
tion  of  the  everlasting  current  of  life  in  the  classics. 
When  the  Latin  spirit  touched  them  for  a  while, 
they  acquired  a  sense  of  form,  they  produced  some 
literature  that  was  good — Lessing,  Herder,  Goethe, 
Schiller.  But  it  was  a  brief  illumination,  and  the 
darkness  that  followed  it  was  deeper  than  ever. 
Who  are  their  foremost  writers  to-day  ?  The  Haupt- 
manns  and  the  Sudermanns,  gropers  in  obscurity, 
violent  sentimentalists,  'bigots  to  laxness,'  Dr. 
Johnson  would  have  called  them.  Their  world  is 
a  moral  and  artistic  chaos  agitated  by  spasms  of 
hysteria.  Their  work  is  a  mass  of  decay  touched 
with  gleams  of  phosphorescence.  The  Romans 
would  have  called  it  immunditia.  What  is  your 
new  American  word  for  that  kind  of  thing,  Richard  ? 
I  heard  you  use  it  the  other  day." 

" Punk,"  responded  Dick  promptly.  "  Sometimes, 
if  it's  very  sickening,  we  call  it  pink  punk." 

"All  right,"  interrupted  Hardman  impatiently. 
189 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

"Say  what  you  like  about  Hauptmann  and  Suder- 
mann.  They  are  no  friends  of  mine.  Be  as  ferocious 
with  them  as  you  please.  But  you  surely  do  not 
mean  to  claim  that  the  right  kind  of  study  and 
understanding  of  the  classics  could  have  had  any 
practical  influence  on  the  German  character,  or 
any  value  in  saving  the  German  Empire  from  its 
horrible  blunders.'* 

"Precisely  that  is  what  I  do  mean." 

"But  how?" 

"Through  the  mind,  animus,  the  intelligent  di 
recting  spirit  which  guides  human  conduct  in  all 
who  have  passed  beyond  the  stage  of  mere  bar 
barism." 

"You  exaggerate  the  part  played  by  what  you 
call  the  mind.  Human  conduct  is  mainly  a  matter 
of  heredity  and  environment.  Most  of  it  is  de 
termined  by  instinct,  impulse,  and  habit." 

"Granted,  for  the  sake  of  argument.  But  may 
there  not  be  a  mental  as  well  as  a  physical  inheri 
tance,  an  environment  of  thought  as  well  as  of  bodily 
circumstances  ?  " 

"Perhaps  so.  Yes,  I  suppose  that  is  true  to  a 
certain  extent." 

190 


A    CLASSIC    INSTANCE 

"A  poor  phrase,  my  dear  Hardman;  but  let  it 
pass.  Will  you  admit  that  there  may  be  habits  of 
thinking  and  feeling  as  well  as  habits  of  doing  and 
making  things  ?  " 

"Certainly." 

"And  do  you  recognize  a  difference  between  bad 
habits  and  good  habits  ?  " 

"Of  course." 

"And  you  agree  that  this  difference  exists  both 
in  mental  and  in  physical  affairs?  For  example, 
you  would  call  the  foreman  of  a  machine-shop  who 
directed  his  work  in  accordance  with  the  natural 
laws  of  his  material  and  of  his  steam  or  electric 
power  a  man  of  good  habits,  would  you  not  ? " 

"Undoubtedly." 

"And  you  would  not  deny  him  this  name,  but 
would  rather  emphasize  it,  if  in  addition  he  had 
the  habit  of  paying  regard  to  the  moral  and  social 
laws  which  condition  the  welfare  and  efficiency  of 
his  workmen;  for  example,  self-control,  cheerful 
ness,  honesty,  fair  play,  honor,  human  kindness, 
and  so  on.  If  he  taught  these  things,  not  only  by 
word  but  by  deed,  you  would  call  him  an  excellent 
foreman,  would  you  not  ?  " 
191 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

"Without  a  question.  That  machine-shop  would 
be  a  great  success,  a  model." 

"But  suppose  your  foreman  had  none  of  these 
good  mental  and  moral  habits.  Suppose  he  was 
proud,  overbearing,  dishonest,  unfair,  and  cruel. 
Do  you  not  believe  he  would  have  a  bad  influence 
upon  his  men?  Would  not  the  shop,  no  matter 
what  kind  of  work  it  turned  out,  become  a  nest  of 
evil  and  a  menace  to  its  neighbors?" 

"It  surely  would." 

"What,  then,  would  you  do  with  the  foreman?" 

"I  would  try  to  teach  him  better.  If  that  failed, 
I  would  discharge  him." 

"In  what  method  and  by  what  means  would 
you  endeavor  to  teach  him?" 

"By  all  the  means  that  I  could  command.  By 
precept  and  by  example,  by  warning  him  of  his 
faults  and  by  showing  him  better  ways,  by  whole 
some  books  and  good  company." 

"And  if  he  refused  to  learn;  if  he  remained  ob 
stinate;  if  he  mocked  you  and  called  you  a  hypo 
crite;  if  he  claimed  that  his  way  was  the  best,  in 
fact  the  only  way,  divinely  inspired,  and  therefore 
192 


A    CLASSIC    INSTANCE 

beyond  all  criticism,  then  you  would  throw  him 
out?" 

"  Certainly,  and  quickly !  I  should  regard  him 
as  morally  insane,  and  try  my  best  to  put  him  where 
he  could  do  no  more  harm.  But  tell  me  why  this 
protracted  imitation  of  Socrates?  Where  are  you 
trying  to  lead  me?  Do  you  want  me  to  say  that 
the  German  Kaiser  is  a  very  bad  foreman  of  his 
shop;  that  he  has  got  it  into  a  horrible  mess  and 
made  it  despised  and  hated  by  all  the  other  shops; 
that  he  ought  to  be  put  out  ?  If  that  is  your  point, 
I  am  with  you  in  advance." 

"Right  you  are!"  cried  Dick  joyously.  "Can 
the  Kaiser !  We  all  agree  to  that.  And  here  the 
bout  ends,  with  honors  for  both  sides,  and  a  special 
prize  for  the  Governor." 

The  professor  smiled,  recognizing  in  the  name 
more  affection  than  disrespect.  He  leaned  forward 
in  his  chair,  lighting  a  fresh  cigar  with  gusto. 

"Not  yet,"  he  said,  "O  too  enthusiastic  youth ! 
Our  friend  here  has  not  yet  come  to  the  point  at 
which  I  was  aiming.  The  application  of  my  re 
marks  to  the  Kaiser — whom  I  regard  as  a  gifted 
193 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

paranoiac — is  altogether  too  personal  and  limited. 
I  was  thinking  of  something  larger  and  more  im 
portant.  Do  you  give  me  leave  to  develop  the 
idea?" 

"Fire  away,  sir,"  said  Dick. 

Hardman  nodded  his  assent.  "I  should  like 
very  much  to  hear  in  what  possible  way  you  con 
nect  the  misconduct  of  Germany,  which  I  admit, 
with  your  idea  of  the  present  value  of  classical  study, 
which  I  question." 

"In  this  way,"  said  the  professor  earnestly. 
"Germany  has  been  living  for  fifty  years  with  a 
closed  mind.  Oh,  I  grant  you  it  was  an  active  mind, 
scientific,  laborious,  immensely  patient.  But  it 
was  an  ingrowing  mind.  Sure  of  its  own  superiority, 
it  took  no  counsel  with  antiquity  and  scorned  the 
advice  of  its  neighbors.  It  was  intent  on  produc 
ing  something  entirely  new  and  all  its  own — a  purely 
German  Kultur,  independent  of  the  past,  and  irre 
sponsible  to  any  laws  except  those  of  Germany's 
interests  and  needs.  Hence  it  fell  into  bad  habits 
of  thought  and  feeling,  got  into  trouble,  and  brought 
infinite  trouble  upon  the  world." 

"And  do  you  claim,"  interrupted  Hardman, 
194 


A    CLASSIC    INSTANCE 

"that  this  would  have  been  prevented  by  reading 
the  classics?  Would  that  have  been  the  only  and 
efficient  cure  for  Germany's  disease?  Rather  a 
large  claim,  that ! " 

"Much  too  large,"  replied  the  professor.  "I 
did  not  make  it.  In  the  first  place,  it  may  be  that 
Germany's  trouble  had  gone  beyond  any  cure  but 
the  knife.  In  the  second  place,  I  regard  the  in 
telligent  reading  of  the  Bible  and  the  vital  appre 
hension  of  the  real  spirit  of  Christianity  as  the  best 
of  all  cures  for  mental  and  moral  ills.  All  that  I 
claim  for  the  classics — the  works  of  the  greatest  of 
the  Greek  and  Roman  writers — is  that  they  have 
in  them  a  certain  remedial  and  sanitary  quality. 
They  contain  noble  thoughts  in  noble  forms.  They 
show  the  strength  of  self-restraint.  They  breathe 
the  air  of  clearness  and  candor.  They  set  forth 
ideals  of  character  and  conduct  which  are  elevating. 
They  also  disclose  the  weakness  and  the  ugliness  of 
things  mean  and  base.  They  have  the  broad  and 
generous  spirit  of  the  true  literce  humaniores.  They 
reveal  the  springs  of  civilization  and  lead  us — 

'To  the  glory  that  was  Greece, 
To  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome.' 
195 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

Now  these  are  precisely  the  remedies  'indicated,' 
as  the  physicians  say,  for  the  cure,  or  at  least  the 
mitigation,  of  the  specific  bad  habits  which  finally 
caused  the  madness  of  Germany." 

"Please  tell  us,  sir,"  asked  Dick  gravely,  "how 
you  mean  us  to  take  that.  Do  you  really  think 
it  would  have  done  any  good  to  those  brutes  who 
ravaged  Belgium  and  outraged  France  to  read 
Tacitus  or  Virgil  or  the  Greek  tragedies?  They 
couldn't  have  done  it,  anyhow." 

"Probably  not,"  answered  the  professor,  while 
Hardman  sat  staring  intently  into  the  fire,  "prob 
ably  not.  But  suppose  the  leaders  and  guides  of 
Germany  (her  masters,  in  effect,  who  moulded  and 
kultured  the  people  to  serve  their  nefarious  purpose 
of  dominating  the  world  by  violence),  suppose  these 
masters  had  really  known  the  meaning  and  felt 
the  truth  of  the  Greek  tragedies,  which  unveil  reck 
less  arrogance — vfipis  (Hubris) — as  the  fatal  sin, 
hateful  to  the  gods  and  doomed  to  an  inevitable 
Nemesis.  Might  not  this  truth,  filtering  through 
the  masters  to  the  people,  have  led  them  to  the 
abatement  of  the  ruinous  pride  which  sent  Ger- 
196 


A    CLASSIC    INSTANCE 

many  out  to  subjugate  the  other  nations  in  1914? 
The  egregious  General  von  der  Goltz  voiced  the 
insane  arrogance  which  made  this  war  when  he 
said,  'The  nineteenth  century  saw  a  German  Em 
pire,  the  twentieth  shall  see  a  German  world.' 

"Or  suppose  the  Teutonic  teachers  and  pastors 
had  read  with  understanding  and  taken  to  heart 
the  passages  of  Csesar  in  which  he  curtly  describes 
the  violent  and  thievish  qualities  of  the  ancient 
Germans — how  they  spread  desolation  around  them 
to  protect  their  borders,  and  encouraged  their  young 
men  in  brigandage  in  order  to  keep  them  in  prac 
tice.  Might  not  these  plain  lessons  have  been  used 
as  a  warning  to  the  people  of  modern  Germany  to 
discourage  their  predatory  propensities  and  their 
habits  of  devastation  and  to  hold  them  back  from 
their  relapse  into  the  Schrecklichkeit  of  savage  war 
fare  ?  George  Meredith  says  a  good  thing  in  'Diana 
of  the  Crossways':  'Before  you  can  civilize  a  man, 
you  must  first  de-barbarize  him.'  That  is  the  trouble 
with  the  Germans,  especially  their  leaders  and  mas 
ters.  They  have  never  gotten  rid  of  their  funda 
mental  barbarism,  the  idolatry  of  might  above  right. 
197 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

They  have  only  put  on  a  varnish  of  civilization. 
It  cracks  and  peels  off  in  the  heat. 

"Take  one  more  illustration.  Suppose  these 
German  thought-masters  and  war-lords  had  really 
understood  and  assimilated  the  true  greatness  of 
the  conception  of  the  old  Roman  Empire  as  it  is 
shown,  let  us  say,  by  Virgil.  You  remember  that 
splendid  passage  in  the  Sixth  Book  of  the  ^Eneid 
where  the  Romans  are  called  to  remember  that  it 
is  their  mission  fto  crown  Peace  with  Law,  to  spare 
the  humbled,  and  to  subdue  and  tame  the  proud/ 
Might  not  such  a  noble  doctrine  have  detached  the 
Germans  a  little  from  their  blind  devotion  to  the 
Hohenzollern-Hollweg  conception  of  the  modern 
pinchbeck  German  Empire — a  predatory  state, 
greedy  to  gain  new  territory  but  incapable  of  rul 
ing  it  when  gained,  scornful  of  the  rights  of  smaller 
peoples,  oppressing  them  when  subjugated,  as  she 
has  oppressed  Poland  and  Schleswig-Holstein  and 
Alsace-Lorraine,  a  clumsy  and  exterminating  tyrant 
in  her  own  colonies,  as  she  has  shown  herself  in  East 
and  West  Africa  ?  I  tell  you  that  a  vital  perception 
of  what  the  Roman  Empire  really  meant  in  its  palmy 
198 


A    CLASSIC    INSTANCE 

days  might  have  been  good  medicine  for  Germany. 
It  might  have  taught  her  to  make  herself  fit  for 
power  before  seeking  to  grasp  it." 

"Granted,  granted,"  broke  in  Hardman,  impa 
tiently  poking  the  fire.  "You  can't  say  anything 
about  Germany  too  severe  to  suit  me.  Whatever 
she  needed  to  keep  her  from  committing  the  crim 
inal  blunder  of  this  war,  it  is  certain  that  she  did 
not  get  it.  The  blunder  was  made  and  the  price 
must  be  paid.  But  what  I  say  now,  as  I  said  at 
the  beginning,  is  that  Latin  and  Greek  are  dead 
languages.  For  us,  for  the  future,  for  the  competi 
tions  of  the  modern  industrial  and  social  era,  the 
classics  are  no  good.  For  a  few  ornamental  persons 
a  knowledge  of  them  may  be  a  pleasing  accomplish 
ment.  But  they  are  luxuries,  not  necessaries.  They 
belong  to  a  bygone  age.  They  have  nothing  to  tell 
us  about  the  things  we  most  need  to  know — chemis 
try  and  physics,  engineering  and  intensive  agricul 
ture,  the  discovery  of  new  forms  and  applications 
of  power,  the  organization  of  labor  and  the  dis 
tribution  of  wealth,  the  development  of  mechanical 
skill  and  the  increase  of  production — these  are  the 
199 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

things  that  we  must  study.  I  say  they  are  the  only 
things  that  will  count  for  success  in  the  new  democ 
racy.'* 

"That  is  what  you  say,"  replied  Professor  De 
Vries  dryly.  "But  the  wisest  men  of  the  world 
have  said  something  very  different.  No  democracy 
ever  has  survived,  or  ever  will  survive,  without  an 
aristocracy  at  the  heart  of  it.  Not  an  aristocracy 
of  birth  and  privilege,  but  one  of  worth  and  intel 
ligence;  not  a  band  of  hereditary  lords,  but  a  com 
pany  of  well-chosen  leaders.  Their  value  will  depend 
not  so  much  upon  their  technical  knowledge  and 
skill  as  upon  the  breadth  of  their  mind,  the  clear 
ness  of  their  thought,  the  loftiness  of  their  motives, 
the  balance  of  their  judgment,  and  the  strength  of 
their  devotion  to  duty.  For  the  cultivation  of  these 
things  I  say — pardon  the  apparent  contradiction 
of  what  you  said — I  say  the  study  of  the  classics 
has  been  and  still  is  of  the  greatest  value." 

"What  did  George  Washington  know  about  the 
classics?"  Hardman  interrupted  sharply.  "He  was 
one  of  your  aristocrats  of  democracy,  I  suppose?" 

"He  was,"  answered  the  professor  blandly,  "and 
200 


A    CLASSIC    INSTANCE 

he  knew  more  about  the  classics  than,  I  fear,  you 
do,  my  dear  Hardman.  At  all  events,  he  under 
stood  what  was  meant  when  he  was  called  'the 
Cincinnatus  of  the  West' — and  he  lived  up  to  the 
ideal,  otherwise  we  should  have  had  no  American 
Republic. 

"But  let  us  not  drop  to  personalities.  What  I 
maintain  is  that  Latin  and  Greek  are  not  dead 
languages,  because  they  still  convey  living  thoughts. 
The  real  success  of  a  democracy — the  production 
of  a  finer  manhood — depends  less  upon  mechanics 
than  upon  morale.  For  that  the  teachings  of  the 
classics  are  excellent.  They  have  a  bracing  and 
a  steadying  quality.  They  instil  a  sense  of  order 
and  they  inspire  a  sense  of  admiration,  both  of  which 
are  needed  by  the  people — especially  the  plain  people 
— of  a  sane  democracy.  The  classics  are  fresher, 
younger,  more  vital  and  encouraging  than  most 
modern  books.  They  have  lessons  for  us  to-day — 
believe  me — great  words  for  the  present  crisis  and 
the  pressing  duty  of  the  hour." 

"Give  us  an  example,"  said  Dick;  "something 
classic  to  fit  this  war." 

201 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

"I  have  one  at  hand,"  responded  the  professor 
promptly.  He  went  to  the  book-shelves  and  pulled 
out  a  small  brown  volume  with  a  slip  of  paper  in 
it.  He  opened  the  book  at  the  marked  place.  "It 
is  from  the  Eighth  Satire  of  Juvenal,  beginning  at 
line  79.  I  will  read  the  Latin  first,  and  afterward 
a  little  version  which  I  made  the  other  day." 

The  old  man  rolled  the  lines  out  in  his  sonorous 
voice,  almost  chanting: 

"  'Esto  bonus  miles,  tutor  bonus,  arbiter  idem 
Integer;  ambiguse  si  quando  citabere  testis 
Incertseque  rei,  Phalaris  licet  imperet  ut  sis 
Falsus  et  admoto  dictet  periuria  tauro, 
Summum  crede  nefas,  animam  prceferre  pudori 
Et  propter  vitam  vivendi  perdere  causas*  " 

"Please  to  translate,  sir,"  said  Dick,  copying 
exactly  the  professor's  classroom  phrase  and  manner. 

"To  gratify  my  nephew,"  said  the  professor, 
nodding  and  winking  at  Hardman.  "But,  under 
stand,  this  is  not  a  real  translation.  It  is  only  a 
paraphrase.  Here  it  is: 

"Be  a  good  soldier,  and  a  guardian  just; 
Likewise  an  upright  judge.    Let  no  one  thrust 
202 


A    CLASSIC    INSTANCE 

You  in  a  dubious  cause  to  testify, 
Through  fear  of  tyrant's  vengeance,  to  a  lie. 
Count  it  a  baseness  if  your  soul  prefer 
Safety  above  what  Honor  asks  of  her: 
And  hold  it  manly  life  itself  to  give, 
Rather  than  lose  the  things  for  which  we  live. 

It  is  not  half  as  good  as  the  Latin.  But  it  gives 
the  meaning.  How  do  you  like  it,  Richard?" 

"Fine!"  answered  the  young  man  quickly; 
"especially  the  last  lines.  They  are  great."  He 
hesitated  slightly,  and  then  went  on.  "Perhaps  I 
ought  to  tell  you  now,  sir,  that  I  have  signed  up  and 
got  my  papers  for  the  training-school  at  Madison 
Barracks.  I  hope  you  will  not  be  angry  with  me." 

The  old  man  put  both  hands  on  the  lad's  shoul 
ders  and  looked  at  him  with  a  suspicious  moisture 
in  his  eyes.  He  swallowed  hard  a  couple  of  times. 
You  could  see  the  big  Adam's  apple  moving  up  and 
down  in  his  wrinkled  throat. 

"Angry!"  he  cried.  "Why,  boy,  I  love  you  for 
it." 

Hardman,  who  was  a  thoroughly  good  fellow  at 
heart,  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Good  for  you,  Dick  !    But  I  must  be  going  now. 
203 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

I  am  putting  up  at  the  Ivy.  Will  you  walk  up  with 
me?  I'd  like  to  have  a  word  with  you." 

The  two  men  walked  in  silence  along  the  shady, 
moon-flecked  streets  of  the  tranquil  old  university 
town.  Then  the  elder  one  spoke. 

"You  have  done  the  right  thing,  I  am  sure.  That 
officers'  training-school  is  a  good  place  to  get  a  prac 
tical  education.  When  you  are  through,  how  would 
you  like  to  have  a  post  in  the  Ordnance  Depart 
ment  at  Washington?  I  have  some  influence  there 
and  believe  I  could  get  you  in  without  difficulty." 

"Thanks,  a  lot,"  answered  the  lad  modestly. 
"You're  awfully  kind.  But,  if  you  don't  mind  my 
saying  so,  I  think  I'd  rather  have  service  at  the 
front — that  is,  if  I  can  qualify  for  it." 

There  was  another  long  silence  before  Hardman 
spoke  again,  with  an  apparent  change  of  subject: 

"I  wish  you  would  tell  me  what  you  really  think 
of  your  uncle's  views  on  the  classics,  you  and  the 
other  fellows  of  your  age  in  the  university." 

Dick  hesitated  a  moment  before  he  replied: 

"Well,  personally,  you  know,  I  believe  what 
Uncle  says  is  usually  about  right.  He  has  the  habit 
204 


A    CLASSIC    INSTANCE 

of  it.  But  I  allow  when  he  gets  on  his  hobby  he 
rides  rather  hard.  Most  of  the  other  fellows  have 
given  up  the  classics — they  like  the  modern-language 
course  with  sciences  better — perhaps  it's  softer. 
They  say  not;  but  I  know  the  classics  are  hard 
enough.  I  flunked  out  on  my  Greek  exam  junior 
year.  So,  you  see,  I'm  not  a  very  good  judge.  But, 
anyhow,  wasn't  the  bit  he  read  us  from  Juvenal 
simply  fine  ?  And  didn't  he  read  it  well  ?  I've  felt 
that  a  hundred  times,  but  never  knew  how  to  say  it." 

It  was  in  the  early  fall  of  1918,  more  than  a  year 
later,  that  Hardman  came  once  more  into  the 
familiar  library  at  Calvinton.  He  had  read  the 
casualty  list  of  the  last  week  of  August  and  came 
to  condole  with  his  friend  De  Vries. 

The  old  man  sat  in  the  twilight  of  the  tranquil 
book-lined  room,  leaning  back  in  his  armchair, 
with  an  open  letter  on  the  table  before  him.  He 
gave  his  hand  cordially  to  Hardman  and  thanked 
him  for  his  sympathetic  words.  He  talked  quietly 
and  naturally  about  Dick,  and  confessed  how  much 
he  should  miss  the  boy — as  it  were,  his  only  son. 
205 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

"Yes,"  he  said  quietly.  "I  am  going  to  be  lonely, 
but  I  am  not  forsaken.  I  shall  be  sad  sometimes, 
but  never  sorry — always  proud  of  my  boy.  Would 
you  like  to  see  this  letter?  It  is  the  last  that  he 
wrote." 

It  was  a  young,  simple  letter,  full  of  cheerful 
joking  and  personal  details  and  words  of  affection 
which  the  shy  lad  would  never  have  spoken  face 
to  face.  At  the  end  he  wrote: 

"Well,  dear  Governor,  this  is  a  rough  life,  and 
some  parts  are  not  easy  to  bear.  But  I  want  you 
to  know  that  I  was  never  happier  in  all  my  days. 
I  know  that  we  are  fighting  for  a  good  cause,  jus 
tice,  and  freedom,  and  a  world  made  clean  from 
this  beastly  German  militarism.  The  things  that 
the  Germans  have  done  to  France  and  Belgium 
must  be  stopped,  and  they  must  never  be  done 
again.  We  want  a  decent  world  to  live  in,  and  we 
are  going  to  have  it,  no  matter  what  it  costs.  Of 
course  I  should  like  to  live  through  it  all,  if  I  can 
do  it  with  honor.  But  a  man  never  can  tell  what  is 
going  to  happen.  And  I  certainly  would  rather 
206 


A    CLASSIC    INSTANCE 

give  up  my  life  than  the  things  we  are  fighting  for — 
the  things  you  taught  me  to  believe  are  according 
to  the  will  of  God.  So  good-night  for  the  present, 
Uncle,  and  sleep  well. 

"Your  loving  nephew  and  son, 

"DlCK." 

Hardman's  hand  shook  a  little  as  he  laid  the  paper 
on  the  table. 

"It  is  a  beautiful  letter,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  nodded  the  old  professor,  putting  his 
hand  upon  it;  "it  is  a  classic;  very  clear  and  simple 
and  high-minded.  The  German  Crown  Prince 
says  our  American  soldiers  do  not  know  what  they 
are  fighting  for.  But  Richard  knew.  It  was  to 
defend  *  the  things  for  which  we  live '  that  he  gladly 
gave  his  life." 

September,  1918. 


207 


HALF-TOLD    TALES 

FANTASIA 

THE   NEW   ERA   AND    CARRY    ON 
THE   PRIMITIVE   AND    HIS   SANDALS 

DIANA   AND   THE    LIONS 
THE   HERO   AND    TIN    SOLDIERS 


THE   NEW   ERA   AND    CARRY     ON 

IHE  Commandant  of  the  Marine  Hospital  was 
at  his  desk,  working  hard,  when  the  door  of  the 
room  was  flung  open  and  the  Officer  of  the  Day 
rushed  in. 

"Sir,"  he  exploded,  "the  New  Era  has  come." 

"Very  likely,  Mr.  Corker,"  answered  the  Com 
mandant.  "It  has  been  coming  continually  since 
the  world  began.  But  is  that  any  reason  why  you 
should  enter  without  knocking,  and  with  your  coat 
covered  with  bread-crumbs  and  cigarette-ashes?" 

So  the  Officer  of  the  Day  went  outside,  brushed 
his  coat,  knocked  at  the  door,  and  awaited  orders. 

"Mr.  Corker,"  said  the  Commandant,  "have 
the  kindness  to  bring  me  your  report  on  the  con 
dition  of  yesterday's  cases,  and  let  me  know  what 
operations  are  indicated  for  to-day.  Good  morning. 
Orderly,  my  compliments  to  the  Executive  Officer, 
and  I  wish  to  see  him  at  once." 

When  the  Executive  Officer  arrived,  he  began: 

"Sir,  the  New  Era " 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

"Quite  so,  Mr.  Greel,  but  you  understand  this 
Hospital  has  to  carry  on  as  required  in  any  kind 
of  an  era.  How  many  patients  did  we  receive  yes 
terday?  Good.  Have  we  enough  bedding  and 
provisions?  Bad.  Attend  to  it  immediately,  and 
let  me  know  the  result  of  your  efforts  to  remedy 
a  situation  which  should  never  have  arisen.  The 
Navy  cannot  be  run  on  hot  air." 

As  the  Executive  Officer  went  out  he  held  the 
door  open  for  the  Head  Nurse  to  pass  in.  She  was 
a  fine,  upstanding  creature,  tremulous  with  emo 
tion. 

"Oh,  Doctor,"  she  cried,  "I  simply  must  tell 
you  about  the  New  Era.  Woman  Suffrage  is  going 
to  save  the  world." 

"I  hope  so,  Miss  Dooby,  it  certainly  needs  sav 
ing.  Meantime  how  are  things  in  the  pneumonia 
ward?" 

"Two  deaths  last  night,  sir,  three  new  cases  this 
morning.  Oxygen  is  running  short:  no  beef -tea 
or  milk.  Five  of  my  nurses  have  gone  to  attend 
conventions  of  woman " 

"Slackers,"  interrupted  the  Commandant.    "Put 


THE    NEW    ERA 

them  on  report  for  leaving  the  ship  without  per 
mission.  I  shall  attend  to  their  cases.  Fill  their 
places  from  the  volunteer  list.  Be  so  good  as  to 
send  the  head  steward  here  immediately." 

"I'm  very  sorry,  Sir,"  said  the  steward,  "but 
ye  see  it's  just  this  way.  The  mess-boys  was  hold- 
in*  a  New  Era  mass-meetin',  and  the  cook  he  for- 
got " 

"Milk  and  beef -tea!"  growled  the  Commandant 
as  if  they  were  swear- words.  "What  the  devil  is 
this  new  influenza  that  has  struck  the  hospital? 
Steward,  you  will  provide  what  the  head  nurse 
requires  at  once.  Orderly,  my  cap,  and  call  Mr. 
Greel  to  accompany  me  on  inspection." 

In  the  galley  the  fires  were  out,  the  ovens  cold, 
the  soup-kettles  empty,  and  all  the  cooks,  dish 
washers,  and  scrubbers  were  absorbing  the  eloquence 
of  the  third  assistant  pie-maker,  who  stood  on  an 
empty  biscuit-box  and  explained  the  glories  of  the 
one-hour  day  in  the  New  Era. 

"Tenahunl"  yelled  the  Orderly,  and  the  force 
of  habit  brought  the  men  up,  stiff  and  silent.    The 
Commandant  looked  around  the  circle,  grinning. 
213 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

"My  word!"  he  cried,  "what  a  beautiful  sight! 
What  do  you  think  this  is — a  blooming  debating 
society  ?  Wrong !  It's  a  hospital,  with  near  a 
thousand  sick  and  wounded  to  take  care  of.  And 
it's  going  to  be  done,  see?  And  you're  going  to 
help  do  it,  see  ?  No  work — no  pay  and  no  food ! 
Neglect  of  orders  means  extra  duty  and  no  liberty 
— perhaps  a  couple  of  twenty-four-hour  days  in 
the  brig.  That's  the  rule  in  all  eras,  see  ?  Now  get 
busy,  all  of  you.  Chow  at  twelve  as  usual.  Carry 
on,  men." 

"Aye,  aye,  sir,"  they  answered  cheerily,  for  they 
were  weary  of  the  third  assistant  pie-maker's  brand 
of  talk  and  felt  the  pangs  of  healthy  hunger. 

Then  came  the  second  engineer,  out  of  breath 
with  running,  followed  by  two  or  three  helpers. 

"Fire,  captain,"  he  gasped,  "fire  in  the  fuel- 
room — awful  blaze — started  in  the  wood  box — 
cigarette — we  were  just  settin'  round  talkin'  over 
what  we  were  goin*  to  do  in  the  New  Era,  an'  the 
first  thing  we  knew  it  was  burnin'  like " 

"The  New  Era,"  snapped  the  Commandant, 
"and  be  damned  to  it!  Sound  the  fire-call.  All 


THE    NEW    ERA 

hands  to  quarters.  Lead  along  the  hose.  Follow 
me,"  he  cried,  hurrying  forward  through  the  gather 
ing  smoke,  "this  ship  must  be  saved." 

And  so  it  was — strictly  in  conformity  with  the 
old  laws  that  fire  burns,  water  quenches,  and  every 
man  must  do  his  duty  promptly.  On  these  ancient 
principles,  and  others  equally  venerable,  the  hos 
pital  carried  on  its  good  work.  But  the  Comman 
dant  made  one  new  rule.  It  cost  five  dollars  to 
mention  the  New  Era  within  its  walls. 


215 


THE    PRIMITIVE    AND    HIS    SANDALS 

"I  AM  sick  of  all  this,"  said  the  Great  Author, 
sweeping  his  hand  over  the  silver-laden  dinner-table. 
He  seemed  to  include  in  his  gesture  the  whole  house 
and  the  broad  estate  surrounding  it.  "It  bores  me, 
and  I  don't  believe  it  can  be  right." 

His  wife,  at  the  other  end  of  the  table,  shining 
in  her  low-necked  dress  with  diamonds  on  her  breast 
and  in  her  hair,  leaned  forward  anxiously,  knowing 
her  husband's  temperament. 

"But,  Nicholas,"  she  said,  "what  do  you  mean? 
You  have  earned  all  this  by  your  work  as  a  writer. 
You  are  the  greatest  man  in  the  country.  You 
are  entitled  to  a  fine  house  and  a  large  estate." 

He  gravely  nodded  his  big  head  with  its  flam 
boyant  locks,  and  lit  a  fresh  cigarette. 

"Quite  right,  my  dear,"  said  he,  "you  are  always 
right  on  practical  affairs.  But,  you  see,  this  is  an 
artistic  affair.  My  books  are  realistic  and  radical. 
They  teach  the  doctrine  of  the  universal  level,  that 
no  man  can  be  above  other  men.  They  have  made 
216 


THE    PRIMITIVE 

poverty,  perhaps  not  exactly  popular,  but  at  least 
romantic.  My  villains  are  always  rich  and  my 
heroes  poor.  The  people  like  this;  but  it  is  rather 
a  strain  to  believe  it  and  keep  on  believing  it.  If 
my  work  is  to  hold  the  public  it  must  have  illus 
trations — moving  pictures,  you  know !  Something 
in  character!  Nobody  else  can  do  that  as  well  as 
I  can.  It  will  be  better  than  many  advertisements. 
I  am  going  to  become  a  virtuous  peasant,  a  son  of 
the  soil,  a  primitive." 

His  wife  laughed,  with  a  slight  nervous  tremor 
in  her  voice.  She  knew  her  husband's  temperament, 
to  be  sure,  but  she  never  knew  just  how  far  it  would 
carry  him. 

"I  think  you  must  be  a  little  crazy,  Nicholas," 
she  said. 

"Thank  you,  Alexandra,"  he  answered,  "thank 
you  for  the  temperate  flattery.  Evidently  you  have 
heard  the  old  proverb  about  genius  and  madness. 
But  why  not  make  the  compliment  complete  and 
say  'absolutely  crazy'?" 

"Well,"  she  replied,  "because  I  do  not  under 
stand  just  what  you  propose  to  do.  Are  you  going 
217 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

to  impoverish  yourself  and  the  whole  family?  Are 
you  thinking  of  turning  over  your  farms  to  these 
stupid  peasants  who  will  let  them  go  to  rack  and 
ruin?  Will  you  give  your  property  to  the  village 
council  who  will  drink  it  up  in  a  month  ?  You  know 
how  much  money  Peter  needs;  he  is  a  member  of 
twelve  first-class  clubs.  And  Olga's  husband  is 
not  earning  much.  Are  you  going  to  starve  your 
children  and  grandchildren  for  the  sake  of  an  idea 
of  consistency  in  art?" 

The  Great  Author  was  now  standing  in  front  of 
the  fireplace,  warming  himself  and  filling  a  pipe. 
The  flames  behind  him  made  an  aureole  in  his  ex 
travagant  white  hair  and  beard.  He  smiled  and 
puffed  slowly  at  his  pipe.  At  last  he  answered. 

"My  dear,  you  go  too  fast  and  too  far.  You  know 
I  am  enthusiastic,  but  have  you  ever  known  me  to 
be  silly?  It  would  be  wrong  to  make  you  and  the 
children  suffer.  I  have  no  right  to  do  that." 

She  nodded  her  head  emphatically,  and  a  look 
of  comprehension  spread  over  her  face. 

" Suppose,"  he  continued,  "suppose  that  I  should 
make  over  the  real  estate  and  farms  to  you — 
218 


THE    PRIMITIVE 

you  are  an  excellent  manager.  And  suppose  that 
I  should  put  the  personal  estate,  including  copy 
rights,  into  a  trust,  the  income  to  be  paid  to  you  and 
the  children.  You  would  take  care  of  me  while 
I  became  a  primitive,  wouldn't  you  ?  " 

"I  would,"  she  answered,  "y°u  know  I  would. 
But  think  how  uncomfortable  it  will  be  for  you. 
While  we  are  living  in  luxury,  you " 

"Don't  worry  about  that,"  he  interrupted  with 
a  laugh.  "I  shall  have  all  the  luxury  I  want:  flannel 
shirts,  loose  around  the  neck,  instead  of  these  in 
fernal  stiff  collars;  velveteen  trousers  and  jacket 
instead  of  this  waiter's  uniform;  and  I  shall  go  bare 
foot  when  the  weather  is  suitable — do  you  under 
stand?  Barefoot  in  the  summer  grass — it  will  be 
immense." 

"But  your  food,"  she  asked,  "how  will  you 
manage  that  on  a  primitive  basis?" 

"You  will  manage  it,"  he  replied,  "you  know  I 
have  always  preferred  beefsteak  and  onions  to  any 
French  dish.  Champagne  does  not  agree  with  me. 
I'd  rather  have  a  glass  of  the  straight  stuff,  with 
out  any  gas  in  it." 

219 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

"But  your  sleeping  arrangements,"  she  mur 
mured,  "are  you  going  to  leave  the  house?  Our 
bedroom  is  not  exactly  primitive." 

"No  fear  of  it,"  he  answered.  "There  is  a  little 
room  beyond  your  bathroom.  Put  an  iron  cot  in 
there,  with  a  soft  mattress,  linen  sheets,  and  light 
blankets.  I'll  do  my  morning  wash  at  the  pump 
in  the  yard,  for  the  sake  of  the  picture.  When  I 
want  a  bath  you'll  leave  the  door  of  the  room  open 
if  you  are  not  actually  in  the  tub." 

"Nicholas,"  she  said,  with  a  Mona  Lisa  smile, 
"for  an  author  you  have  a  very  clever  way  of  put 
ting  things.  But  suppose  we  have  guests  at  the 
house,  you  can't  come  to  dinner  in  dirty  clothes 
and  with  bare  feet." 

"Certainly  not,"  he  answered.  "I  shall  put  on 
clean  flannels,  clean  velveteens,  and  sandals." 

"Sandals,"  she  murmured,  "sandals  for  dinner 
are  simply  wonderful.  Do  you  think  I  could " 

"Not  at  all,  my  dear,"  said  the  Great  Author 
firmly.  "Your  present  style  of  dress  becomes  you 
amazingly.  I  am  the  only  one  who  has  to  do  the 
primitive." 

220 


THE    PRIMITIVE 

So  the  arrangements  were  completed.  The  in 
terviewers  who  came  to  the  house  described  the 
Great  Author  in  his  loose  flannels  and  velveteens, 
with  bare  feet,  returning  from  labor  in  the  fields. 
The  moving  pictures  were  full  of  him.  But  the 
sandals  did  not  appear.  There  were  no  flash-lights 
permitted  at  the  part-primitive  dinner-table. 


DIANA    AND    THE    LIONS 

IN  the  darkest  hour  before  the  dawn,  Diana  floated 
away  from  her  Garden  Tower  and  came  down  be 
tween  the  Lions  on  the  Library  Steps. 

At  first,  she  did  not  know  they  were  Lions.  She 
thought  they  were  Cats,  and  so  she  was  afraid.  For 
she  was  very  lightly  clad;  and  (except  in  Egypt) 
Cats  are  terrible  to  undomesticated  goddesses. 
Diana  shivered  as  she  strung  her  bow  for  defense. 
She  felt  that  she  was  divine,  but  she  knew  that  she 
had  cold  feet. 

In  truth,  the  Library  Steps  were  wet  and  glis 
tening,  for  there  had  been  a  shower  after  midnight. 
But  now  the  gibbous  moon  was  giving  a  silent  imi 
tation  of  an  arc-light  high  in  the  western  heaven. 
Her  beams  silver-plated  the  weird  architecture  of 
the  shrines  of  Commerce  which  face  the  great  Temple 
dedicated  to  the  Three  Muses  of  New  York — Astor, 
Lenox,  and  Tilden. 

But  on  the  awful  animals  guarding  the  steps  the 
light  was  florid,  like  a  flush  of  sunburn  discovered 
222 


DIANA    AND    THE    LIONS 

by  the  ablution  of  a  warranted  complexion  cream. 
They  were  wonderfully  pink,  and  Diana  hastened 
to  draw  an  arrow  from  her  quiver,  for  it  seemed  to 
her  as  if  her  feline  neighbors  were  beginning  to  glow 
with  rage. 

"Do  not  shoot,"  said  the  ruddier  one;  "we  are 
not  angry,  we  are  only  blushing."  And  he  glanced 
at  her  costume. 

Diana  was  astonished  to  hear  a  masculine  voice 
utter  such  a  modest  sentiment.  But  being  a  woman, 
she  knew  that  the  first  word  does  not  count. 

"Cats  never  blush,"  she  answered  boldly,  "no 
matter  how  big  they  are." 

"But  we  are  not  Cats,"  they  cried,  ramping  sud 
denly  like  crests  on  a  millionaire's  note-paper.  "  We 
are  Lions ! " 

Diana  smiled  at  this,  for  now  she  felt  safe,  re 
membering  that  when  a  male  begins  to  boast  he  is 
not  dangerous. 

"Roar  a  little  for  me,  please,"  she  said,  laying 
down  her  unconcealed  weapon. 

"Impossible,"  said  the  Northern  Lion,  "a  city 
ordinance  forbids  unnecessary  noise." 
223 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

"Nonsense!"  interrupted  the  Southern  Lion. 
"Who  would  not  break  a  law  to  oblige  a  lady?" 

"Let  us  compromise,"  said  the  Northern  Lion, 
"and  give  her  our  reproduction  of  an  automobile 
horn." 

"No,"  said  the  Southern  Lion,  "we  will  give  her 
our  automatic  record  of  a  Book-Advertisement; 
it  is  louder." 

Then  Diana  trembled,  indeed.  But  she  bravely 
continued  smiling,  and  said:  "Thank  you  a  thou 
sand  times  for  doing  it  once !  And  now  please  tell 
me  what  kind  of  Lions  you  are." 

"Literary  Lions,"  was  their  prompt  and  unan 
imous  reply. 

"Ah,"  she  cried,  clapping  her  hands  with  a 
charming  gesture,  "how  glad  I  am  to  meet  you !  I 
have  been  in  New  York  more  than  twenty  years 
and  never  seen  any  one  like  you  before !  Come 
and  sit  beside  me  and  talk." 

The  Lions  looked  at  each  other  rather  sheepishly, 

and  glanced  up  and  down  the  street,  as  if  fearing 

the  approach  of  a  city  ordinance.     But  there  was 

no  one  in  sight  except  Diana,  so  they  shook  their 

224 


DIANA    AND    THE    LIONS 

literary  locks  into  a  becoming  disorder  and  sat  on 
the  steps  with  her,  purring  gently. 

"Now  tell  me,"  she  said,  "who  you  are." 

If  she  had  been  less  beautiful  they  would  have 
resented  this.  But,  as  it  was,  they  looked  sorry, 
and  asked  her  if  she  had  never  read  "Who's  Who 
in  America"?  She  shook  her  head,  and  admitted 
that  she  had  not  read  it  all  through. 

"Well,"  said  her  neighbor  on  the  south,  "this  is 
rather  an  offhand  soirSe,  and  we  may  as  well  cut 
out  proper  names.  But  I  will  put  you  wise  to  the 
fact  that  I  am  the  Magazine  Lion.  I  got  away  from 
Roosevelt  in  Africa.  He  called  me  *  Mucky/  and 
I  made  tracks.  Here  he  cannot  hurt  me,  for  they 
will  never  let  that  man  do  anything  in  good  old 
New  York,  not  even  touch  a  Tiger." 

"And  I,"  said  her  neighbor  on  the  north,  "I  am 
the  Academic  Lion,  of  whom  you  must  have  heard. 
My  character  is  noted  for  its  concealed  sweetness, 
and  my  style  leaves  nothing  to  be  hoped  for.  I 
am  literally  a  man  of  letters,  for  I  have  seventeen 
degrees.  Usually  I  look  literary — lean  and  nobly 
dissatisfied,  but  yesterday  I  swallowed  a  British 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

Female  Novelist  by  accident,  and  that  accounts 
for  my  inartistic  air  of  cheerfulness.  I  won  my 
splendid  reputation  by  telling  other  Lions  how  they 
ought  to  have  done  their  little  tricks.  But  now, 
tired  of  that,  I  have  gone  into  politics.  This  is 
my  first  public  office." 

Diana  was  somewhat  confused  and  benumbed 
by  these  personally  conducted  biographies,  but 
she  was  too  well-bred  not  to  appear  interested. 

"How  lovely,*'  she  murmured,  "to  sit  between 
two  such  Great  Personages  !  I  wonder  what  brought 
poor  little  Me  to  such  an  honor.  And,  by  the  way, 
how  do  you  happen  to  be  just  here?  What  is  this 
beautiful  building  behind  you  ?  Is  it  your  Palace  ?  " 

"It  is  a  Library,"  said  the  Academic  Lion,  with 
a  superior  tone. 

"The  biggest  book-heap  in  America,"  said  the 
Magazine  Lion  in  his  vivid  way.  "We  have  them 
all  beaten  to  a  finish — except  the  old  junk-shop 
down  in  Washington." 

"You  forget  Boston,"  said  the  Academic  Lion. 

"Who  wouldn't?"  growled  the  Magazine  Lion. 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  asked  Diana,  with  her 
226 


DIANA    AND    THE    LIONS 

most  engaging  and  sprightly  air,  "  that  this  splendid 
place  is  a  Library,  all  full  of  books,  and  that  you 
are  its  most  prominent  figures,  its  figureheads,  so 
to  speak  ?  How  interesting !  I  have  travelled  a 
great  deal — under  the  name  of  Pasht  or  Bast,  in 
Egypt,  where  the  Cats  liked  me;  and  under  the 
name  of  Artemis  in  Greece;  and  under  my  own  name 
in  Italy.  Believe  me,  I  have  seen  all  things  that 
the  moon  shines  upon.  But  I  do  not  remember 
having  seen  Lions  on  a  Library  before.  How  orig 
inal!  How  appropriate!  How  suggestive!  But 
what  does  it  suggest?  What  are  you  here  for?" 

"For  educational  purposes,"  said  the  Academic 
Lion. 

"To  catch  the  eye,"  said  the  Magazine  Lion, 
"same  as  head-lines  in  a  newspaper." 

"I  see,"  exclaimed  Diana.  "You  are  here  to 
keep  the  people  from  getting  at  the  books?  How 
modern ! " 

This  remark  made  the  Academic  Lion  look  like 
a  Sphinx,  as  if  he  knew  something  but  did  not  want 
to  tell.  But  the  Magazine  Lion  was  distinctly  flat 
tered. 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

"Right  you  are,'*  said  he  cheerfully,  "or  next 
door  to  it.  We  don't  propose  to  keep  the  people 
out,  only  the  authors.  Why,  when  this  place  was 
publicly  opened  there  was  not  a  single  author  in 
the  exhibit,  except  John  Bigelow." 

"Why  did  you  not  keep  him  out?"  asked  Di 
ana. 

"We  were  not  on  the  spot,  then,"  said  the  Lion. 
"Besides,  there  are  some  things  that  even  a  Lion 
does  not  dare  to  do." 

"But  I  do  not  understand,"  said  Diana,  "pre 
cisely  why  authors  should  be  kept  away  from  a 
library." 

The  Magazine  Lion  laughed.  "Silly  little 
thing!"  he  said,  with  a  fascinating  tone  of  virile 
condescension.  "An  author's  business  is  to  write 
books,  not  to  read  them.  If  he  reads,  he  grows  in 
telligent  and  thoughtful  and  careful  about  his  work. 
Those  old  books  spoil  him  for  the  modern  market. 
But  if  he  just  goes  ahead  and  writes  whatever  comes 
into  his  head,  he  can  do  it  with  a  bang,  and  every 
body  sits  up  and  pays  attention.  That's  the  only 
way  to  be  original.  See?" 
228 


DIANA    AND    THE    LIONS 

"Excuse  me,"  broke  in  the  Academic  Lion,  "but 
you  go  too  far,  brother.  Authors  should  be  en 
couraged  to  read,  but  only  under  critical  guidance 
and  professorial  direction.  Otherwise  they  will 
not  be  able  to  classify  the  books,  and  tabulate  their 
writers,  and  know  which  ones  to  admire  and  praise. 
How  can  you  expect  a  mere  author  to  comprehend 
the  faulty  method  of  Shakespeare,  or  the  ethical 
commonplaceness  of  Dickens  and  Thackeray,  or 
the  vital  Ibsenism  of  Bernard  Shaw  and  the  other 
near-Ibsens,  without  assistance?" 

"But  the  other  people,"  asked  Diana,  "what  is 
going  to  happen  to  them  if  you  let  them  go  in  free 
and  browse  among  the  books?" 

"They  are  less  important,"  answered  the  Aca 
demic  Lion.  "Besides  we  expect  soon  to  establish 
a  cranial,  neurological,  and  psychopathic  examina 
tion  which  will  determine  the  subliminal,  tempera 
mental  needs  of  every  applicant.  Then  we  classify 
the  readers  in  groups,  and  the  books  in  lists,  and 
the  whole  thing  works  with  automatic  precision." 

"And  I  am  going  to  make  the  book-lists!"  said 
the  Magazine  Lion,  ecstatically  wagging  his  tail, 
229 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

and  half -unconsciously  putting  his  paw  around  the 
lady's  waist  in  a  spirit  of  pure  comradeship. 

But  she  gently  slipped  away,  stood  up,  and  grace 
fully  covered  a  yawn  with  her  hand. 

"I  am  ever  so  much  obliged  to  you  Literary  Lions 
for  not  eating  me,"  said  she.  "Probably  I  should 
have  disagreed  with  you  even  more  than  your  con 
versation  has  with  me.  I  am  quite  sleepy.  And  the 
moon  has  almost  disappeared.  I  must  be  going 
where  I  can  bid  it  good  night." 

So  Diana  rose,  with  shining  limbs,  above  the 
housetops,  and  vanished  toward  her  Garden  Tower. 
The  Lions  looked  disconcerted.  "Old-fashioned, 
Victorian  prude!"  said  one.  "Brazen  hussy!" 
said  the  other.  And  they  climbed  back  on  their 
Pedestals,  resuming  their  supercilious  expression. 
There  I  suppose  they  will  stay,  no  matter  what 
Diana  may  think  of  them. 


230 


THE    HERO    AND    TIN    SOLDIERS 

ON  December  twenty-fifth,  1918,  that  little  white 
house  in  the  park  was  certainly  the  happiest  dwel 
ling  in  Calvin  ton.  It  was  simply  running  over  with 
Christmas. 

You  see,  there  had  come  to  it  a  most  wonderful 
present,  a  surprise  full  of  tears  and  laughter.  Cap 
tain  Walter  Mayne  reached  home  on  Christmas 
Eve. 

For  a  while  they  had  thought  that  he  would  never 
come  back  at  all.  News  had  been  received  that  he 
was  grievously  wounded  in  France-J-shot  to  pieces,  in 
effect,  leading  his  men  near  Chateau-Thierry.  His 
life  hung  on  the  ragged  edge  of  those  wounds.  ]  But 
his  wife  Katharine  always  believed  that  he  would 
pull  through.  So  he  did.  But  he  was  lacking  a 
log,  his  right  arm  was  knocked  out  of  commission 
for  the  present,  and  various  other  souvenirs  de  la 
grande  guerre  were  inscribed  upon  his  body. 

Then  word  arrived  that  he  was  coming  on  a  trans- 
231 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

port,  with  other  wounded,  to  be  patched  up  in  a 
hospital  on  Staten  Island.  So  his  wife  Katharine 
smiled  her  way  through  innumerable  entanglements 
of  red  tape  and  went  to  nurse  him.  Then  she  set 
her  steady  hand  to  pull  all  the  wires  necessary  to 
get  him  discharged  and  sent  home.  Christmas 
was  in  her  heart  and  she  would  not  be  denied.  So 
it  came  to  pass  that  the  one-legged  Hero  was  in 
his  own  house  on  the  happy  day,  and  joy  was  bub 
bling  all  around  him. 

When  the  old  Pastor  entered,  late  in  the  after 
noon,  the  Christmas-tree  was  twinkling  with  lights, 
the  children  swarming  and  buzzing  all  over  the 
place,  so  that  he  was  dazed  for  a  moment.  ^  There 
were  Walter's  mother  and  his  aunt  and  his  sisters- 
in-law,  boys  and  girls  of  various  sizes,  and  a  jubilant 
and  entrancing  baby.j  The  Pastor  took  it  all  in, 
and  was  glad  of  it,  but  his  mind  was  on  the  Hero. 

Katharine,  who  always  understood  everything, 
whispered  softly:  "Walter  is  waiting  to  see  you, 
Doctor.  He  is  in  his  study,  just  across  the  hall/* 

Waiting?  Well,  what  can  a  man  whose  right 
leg  has  been  cut  off  above  the  knee,  and  who  has 
232 


THE    HERO 

not  yet  been  able  to  get  an  artificial  one — what 
can  he  do  but  wait  ? 

The  room  was  rather  dimly  lighted;  brilliance 
is  not  good  for  the  eyes  of  the  wounded.  Walter 
was  in  a  long  chair  in  the  corner;  his  face  was 
bronzed,  drawn  and  lined  a  little  by  suffering;  but 
steady  and  cheerful  as  ever,  with  the  eager  look 
which  had  made  his  students  listen  to  him  when 
he  talked  to  them  about  English  literature. 

"My  dear  Walter,"  m*MiitHPa&fce5y  "my  dear 
boy,  we  are  so  glad  to  have  you  home  with  us  again. 
We  are  very  proud  of  you.  You  are  oujr  Hero." 

" Thank  you,"  sakL-Warter?  "it  is  mighty  good 
to  be  home  again.  But  there  is  no  hero  business 
about  it.  I  only  did  what  all  the  other  Americans 
who  went  over  there  did — fought  my — excuse  me, 
my  best,  against  the  beastly  Germans." 

"But  your   leg,"  ^fid   tho  Pastes  impuki^ly, 
"it  is  gone.    Aren't  you  angry  about  that?" 
f     V^alter  was  silent  for  a  moment.     Then  he  an- 

(swered. 

^***«« 

"No,  I  don't  think  angry  is  the  right  word.    You 

remember  that  story  about  Nathan  Hale  in  the 
233 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

Revolution — 'I  only  regret  that  I  have  but  one 
life  to  give  to  my  country/  Well,  I'm  glad  that 
I  had  two  legs  to  give  for  my  country,  and  par 
ticularly  glad  that  she  only  needed  one  of  them." 

"Tell  me  a  bit  about  the  fighting,"  said  the  .Pos 
ter,  "I  want  to  know  what  it  was  like — the  hero- 
touch — you  understand  ? ' 

"Not  for  me/' -sftkUWWter,  "and  certainly  not 
now.  Later  on  I  can  tell  you  something,  perhaps. 
But  this  is  Christmas  Day.  And  war?  Well, 
Doctor,  believe  me,  war  is  a  horrible  thing,  full  of 
grime  and  pain,  madness,  agony,  hell — a  thing  that 
ought  not  to  be.  I  have  fought  alongside  of  the 
other  fellows  to  put  an  end  to  it,  and  now " 

The  door  swung  open,  and  Sammy,  the  eldest 
son  of  the  house,  pranced  in. 

"Look,  Daddy,"  be^ccM,  "see  what  Aunt  Emily 
has  sent  me  for  Christmas — a  big  box  of  tin  sol 
diers!" 

Mayne  smiled  as  the  little  boy  carefully  laid  the 

box  on  his  knee;   but  there  was  a  shadow  of  pain 

in  his  eyes,  and  he  closed  them  for  a  few  seconds, 

as   if   his  mind  were  going  back,  somewhere,  far 

234 


THE    HERO 

away.  jThen  he  spoke,  tenderly,  but  with  a  grave 
voice] 

"That's  fine,  sonny — all  those  tin  soldiers.  But 
don't  you  think  they  ought  to  belong  to  me  ?  You 
have  lots  of  other  toys,  you  know.  Would  you 
give  the  soldiers  to  me?" 

The  child  looked  up  at  him,  puzzled  for  a  moment; 
then  a  flash  of  comprehension  passed  over  his  face, 
and  he  nodded  valiantly. 

"Sure,  Father,"  he-safrtf  "You're  the  Captain. 
Keep  the  soldiers.  I'll  play  with  the  other  toys," 
and  he  skipped  out  of  the  room. 

Mayne's  look  followed  him  with  love.  Then  he 
turned  to  the  old  Pastor  and  a  strange  expression 
came  into  his  face,  half  whimsical  and  half  grim. 

"Doctor,"  Ire— said,  "will  you  do  me  a  favor? 
Poke  up  that  fire  till  it  blazes.  That's  right.  Now 
lay  this  box  in  the  hottest  part  of  the  flames.  That's 
right.  It  will  soon  be  gone." 

The  elder  man  did  what  was  asked,  with  an  air 

of  slight  bewilderment,  as  one  humors  the  fancies 

of  an  invalid.    He  wondered  whether  Mayne's  fever 

had  quite  left  him.     He  watched  the  fire  bulging 

235 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

the  lid  and  catching  round  the  edges  of  the  box. 
Then  he  heard  Mayne's  voice  behind  him,  speakieg- 


"If  ever  I  find  my  little  boy  playing  with  tin  sol 
diers,  I  shall  spank  him  well.  No,  that  wouldn't 
be  quite  fair,  would  it?  But  I  shall  tell  him  why 
he  must  not  do  it,  and  7  shall  make  him  understand 
that  it's  an  impossible  thing  " 

Then  the  old  Pastor  comprehended.  There  was 
no  touch  of  fever.  The  one-legged  Hero  had  come 
home  from  the  wars  completely  well  and  sound  in 
mind.  So  the  two  men  sat  together  in  love  by  the 
Christmas  fire,  and  saw  the  tin  soldiers  melt  away. 


236 


SALVAGE    POINT 


SALVAGE    POINT 

THE  Hermanns  built  their  house  at  the  very 
end  of  the  island,  five  or  six  miles  from  the  more  or 
less  violently  rustic  "summer-cottages"  which 
adorned  the  hills  and  bluffs  around  the  native  village 
of  Winterport. 

There  was  a  long  point  running  out  to  the  south 
ward  at  the  mouth  of  the  great  bay,  rough  and 
rocky  for  the  most  part,  with  little  woods  of  pointed 
firs  on  it,  some  acres  of  pasture,  and  a  few  pockets 
of  fertile  soil  lying  between  the  stony  ridges.  A 
yellow  farmhouse,  with  a  red  barn  beside  it,  had 
nestled  for  near  a  hundred  years  in  one  of  these 
hollows,  buying  shelter  from  the  winter  winds  at 
the  cost  of  an  outlook  over  sea  and  shore. 

It  was  a  large  price  to  pay.  The  view  from  the 
summit  of  the  little  hill  a  few  hundred  yards  away 
was  superb — a  wonder  even  on  that  wonderful 
coast  of  Maine  where  mountain  and  sea  meet  to 
gether,  forest  and  flood  kiss  each  other. 
239 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

But  I  suppose  the  old  Yankee  farmer  knew  what 
he  wanted  when  he  paid  the  price  and  snuggled  his 
house  in  the  hollow.  I  am  certain  the  Hermanns 
knew  what  they  wanted  when  they  bought  the  whole 
point  and  perched  their  house  on  the  very  top  of  the 
hill,  where  all  the  winds  of  heaven  might  visit  it  as 
roughly  as  they  pleased,  but  where  nothing  could 
rob  the  outlook  of  its  ever-changing  splendor  and 
mystery,  its  fluent  wonder  and  abiding  charm. 

You  see,  the  Hermanns  knew  what  they  wanted 
because  they  had  come  through  a  lot  of  trouble.  I 
met  them  when  they  were  young — no  matter  how 
many  years  ago — when  they  were  in  the  thick  of  it. 

Alice  Mackaye  and  Will  Hermann  had  the  rare 
luck  to  fall  in  love — a  very  real  and  great  love — 
when  they  were  in  their  early  twenties.  You  would 
think  that  extraordinary  piece  of  good  fortune 
would  have  been  enough  to  set  them  up  for  life, 
wouldn't  you?  But  no.  There  was  an  Obstacle. 
And  that  Obstacle  came  very  near  wrecking  them 
both. 

Will  Hermann  Was  an  artist  and  the  son  of  an 
artist.  The  love  of  beauty  ran  in  his  blood.  Other- 
240 


SALVAGE    POINT 

wise  he  was  poor.  He  earned  a  decent  living  by  his 
painting,  but  each  year's  living  depended  on  each 
year's  work.  Hence  he  was  in  the  proletarian 
class. 

Alice  Mackaye,  on  the  other  hand,  belonged  to 
the  capitalist  class.  I  say  "belonged,"  because 
that  is  precisely  the  word  to  describe  her  situation. 
Her  father  was  a  millionaire  sugar-merchant,  who 
lived  in  an  ugly  palace  near  Morristown,  New  Jer 
sey,  and  was  accustomed  to  have  his  own  way  in 
that  and  other  States.  He  was  the  Obstacle. 

He  was  a  florid,  handsome  old  Scotchman,  or 
thodox  in  religion,  shrewd  in  business,  correct  in 
conduct,  but  with  no  more  sentiment  than  a  hard 
shell  crab,  and  obstinate  as  the  devil.  His  fixed 
idea  was  that  none  of  his  daughters  should  ever  be 
carried  off  by  a  fortune-hunter.  The  two  older 
girls  apparently  escaped  this  danger  by  making 
fairly  wealthy  matches.  But  Alice — come  away ! 
why  should  she  take  up  with  this  impecunious 
painter?  He  was  good-looking  and  had  the  gift  of 
the  gab,  but  what  was  that  worth?  If  he  would 
come  into  the  sugar-business,  where  a  place  was 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

waiting  for  him,  and  make  good  there,  it  would  be 
all  right.  Otherwise,  the  affair  must  be  broken  off, 
absolutely,  finally,  and  forever.  From  this  you  can 
see  that  the  Obstacle  was  not  bad-hearted,  but  only 
pig-headed. 

Well,  for  five  or  six  years  things  drifted  rather 
miserably  along  this  way.  Will  Hermann  was  for 
bidden  the  house  at  Morristown.  Alice  was  prac 
tically  a  captive;  her  correspondence  was  censored. 
But  of  course,  even  before  Marconi,  wireless  com 
munication  in  matters  of  this  kind  has  always  been 
possible. 

The  trouble  was  that  the  state  of  affairs  between 
them,  while  conventionally  correct,  was  thoroughly 
unnatural  and  full  of  peril.  Alice,  a  very  good 
girl,  obedient  and  tractable,  was  in  danger  of  be 
coming  a  recalcitrant  and  sour  old  maid.  Will,  a 
healthy  and  normal  young  man,  with  no  bad  habits, 
was  in  danger  of  being  driven  to  them  by  the  emp 
tiness  and  exasperation  of  his  mind.  The  worst 
of  it  all  was  that  both  of  the  young  people  were,  in 
accordance  with  a  well-known  law  of  nature,  grow 
ing  older  with  what  seemed  to  them  a  frightful  and 
242 


SALVAGE    POINT 

unreasonable  rapidity.  The  years  crawled  like 
snails.  But  the  sum  of  them  rose  by  leaps  and 
bounds  to  an  appalling  total.  Alice  found  two  grey 
hairs  in  her  red-gold  locks.  Will  had  to  use  glasses 
for  reading  fine  print  at  night.  From  their  point  of 
view,  decrepitude,  senility,  dotage  stared  them  in 
the  face,  while  the  bright  voyage  of  life  which  they 
were  resolved  to  make  only  together,  was  threat 
ened  with  shipwreck  among  the  shoals  of  intermi 
nable  delay. 

It  was  at  this  juncture  of  affairs  that  they  came 
to  me,  as  fine-looking  a  young  couple  as  ever  I  saw. 
They  were  good,  as  mortals  go;  they  were  loyal  and 
upright,  they  wanted  no  scandal,  no  rumpus  in  the 
family,  no  trouble  or  pain  for  anybody  else;  but 
they  wanted  to  belong  to  each  other  much  more 
than  they  wanted  to  belong  to  any  class,  artistic, 
proletarian,  or  capitalist.  And  they  were  desper 
ate  because  of  the  pertinacity  of  the  Obstacle,  whom 
they  both  respected  fully  as  much  as  he  deserved. 

When  they  had  stated  their  case,  I  made  my  an 
swer. 

"So  far  as  I  can  see,  the  salvage  of  your  ship  of 
243 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

love  depends  entirely  on  yourselves.  Mr.  Her 
mann  is  not  after  a  fortune,  he  only  wants  his  girl; 
is  that  so?  [Hermann  nodded  vigorously.]  And 
Miss  Mackaye  does  not  care  about  being  supported 
in  the  manner  of  living  to  which  she  has  been  ac 
customed;  she  only  wants  to  live  with  the  man  whom 
she  has  chosen;  is  that  so?  [Alice  blushed  and 
nodded.]  Well,  then,  why  shouldn't  you  lay  your 
course  and  sail  ahead  together?  You  are  both  of 
age,  aren't  you  ?  " 

They  smiled  at  each  other.  "Yes,  and  a  little 
over." 

"But  my  father!"  said  Alice.  "You  know  I 
honor  him,  and  I  can  never  deny  his  authority  over 


me." 


Here  was  the  turn  of  the  talk,  the  critical  mo 
ment,  the  point  where  the  chosen  counsellor  had  to 
fall  back  upon  the  ultimate  reality  of  his  faith. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "you  are  absolutely  correct,  dear 
daughter,  in  your  feeling  toward  your  father.  He 
has  earned  his  money  and  has  a  right  to  dispose  of 
it  as  he  will.  But,  you  know,  there  is  a  statute  of 
limitations  in  regard  to  the  authority  of  parents 
244  , 


SALVAGE    POINT 

over  the  lives  of  their  children.  You  have  passed 
the  limitation.  What  do  you  want  to  do  ?  " 

"To  be  married  to  Will  Hermann,"  she  said,  "for 
better  for  worse,  for  richer  for  poorer,  I  don't  care. 
But  I  don't  want  a  family  quarrel,  a  runaway 
match,  all  that  horrid  newspaper  talk."  Here  she 
was  evidently  a  little  excited  and  on  the  verge  of  tears. 

"Certainly  not,"  I  hastened  to  reassure  her, 
"you  can't  possibly  have  a  runaway  match,  be 
cause  there  is  nothing  for  you  to  run  away  from. 
There  is  not  a  single  duty  in  your  father's  house 
which  you  have  not  fulfilled,  and  of  which  your 
sisters  can  not  now  relieve  you.  There  is  no  au 
thority  in  the  world  which  has  the  right  to  com 
mand  the  sacrifice  of  your  life  to  another's  judgment. 
There  is  only  one  thing  that  stands  in  your  way, 
and  that  is  your  claim  on  a  large  inheritance.  I 
understand  you  are  quite  willing  to  let  that  go. 
You  are  not  even  'running  away'  from  it — that  is 
not  the  word — you  are  ready  to  jettison  it." 

She  looked  puzzled,  and  murmured;  "I  don't 
exactly  understand  what  that  means." 

"To  jettison,"  I  said,  in  that  learned  and  dis- 
245 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

passionate  manner  which  is  sometimes  useful  in 
relieving  an  emotional  situation,  "is  a  seafaring 
phrase.  It  means  throwing  overboard  a  part  or  the 
whole  of  a  cargo  in  order  to  save  the  ship.  As  far 
as  I  can  see  that  is  the  question  which  is  up  to  you 
and  your  best  friend  at  the  present  moment.  Are 
you  prepared  to  jettison  the  claim  on  a  big  fortune 
for  the  sake  of  making  your  voyage  of  life  to 
gether?" 

They  looked  at  each  other  and  a  kind  of  radi 
ance  spread  over  their  faces.  "Surely,"  they  an 
swered  with  one  voice.  "But  how  can  the  marriage 
be  arranged,"  asked  Alice,  "without  a  row  in  the 
family?" 

"Very  easily,"  I  answered.  "Both  of  you  are 
over  age,  though  you  don't  look  it.  Our  good  lawyer 
friend  Harrison  will  help  you  to  get  the  license. 
Fix  your  day  for  the  wedding,  neither  secret  nor 
notorious;  invite  anybody  you  like,  and  come  to 
me  on  the  day  you  have  chosen.  The  arrangements 
will  be  made.  You  shall  be  married,  all  right." 

So  they  came,  and  I  married  them,  and  it  was  a 
very  good  job. 

246 


SALVAGE    POINT 

They  had  some  years  of  difficulty  and  uncer 
tainty  during  which  I  caught  brief  glimpses  of  them 
now  and  then,  always  cheerful  and  happy  together. 
In  the  course  of  time  the  Obstacle,  being  not  at  all 
bad-hearted  but  only  pig-headed,  probably  relented 
a  little,  and  finally  was  gathered  to  his  fathers,  ac 
cording  to  the  common  lot  of  man.  The  older  sis 
ters  behaved  very  well  about  the  inheritance,  and 
Alice  was  not  left  portionless.  She  brought  three 
fine  boys  into  the  world.  The  house  on  Salvage 
Point  was  built  by  her  and  Will  together. 

It  was  there  that  I  spent  a  day  with  them,  in  the 
summer  of  1918,  after  many  years  during  which 
we  had  not  met.  I  was  on  naval  duty,  with  Com 
mander  Kidd,  of  a  certain  station  on  the  Maine 
coast.  By  invitation  we  put  in  with  the  motor- 
boat  S.  P.  297,  at  Salvage  Point.  So  it  was  that  I 
met  my  old  friends  again,  and  knew  what  had  be 
come  of  their  barque  of  love  which  I  had  helped  to 
save  from  shipwreck. 

The  house  on  the  peak  of  the  hill  was  just  what 
it  ought  to  be;  not  aggressively  rustic,  not  obtru 
sively  classic — white  pillars  in  front  of  it,  and  a 
247 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

terrace,  but  nothing  dominating — it  had  the  air  of 
a  very  large  and  habitable  lighthouse. 

The  extraordinary  thing  was  the  arrangement  of 
the  grounds.  At  every  point  one  came  upon  some 
reminder  of  salvage.  On  the  glorious  August  day 
when  I  was  there,  shipwreck  seemed  impossible: 
the  Southern  Way  which  opened  to  the  Ocean  was 
dancing  with  gay  waves;  the  blue  mountains  of 
Maine  were  tranquil  on  the  horizon. 

"But  you  see,"  said  Will  Hermann,  "this  is 
really  rather  a  dangerous  point,  though  it  is  so 
beautiful.  It  is  the  gateway  of  the  open  sea,  and 
there  are  three  big  ledges  across  it.  A  ship  that 
has  lost  her  bearings  a  little,  or  is  driving  in  through 
thick  weather,  easily  comes  to  grief.  But  there  is 
not  often  a  loss  of  life,  only  the  ship  goes  to  pieces. 
And  we  save  the  pieces." 

It  was  true.  There  was  a  terrace  west  of  the 
house,  with  a  balustrade  made  of  the  taffrail  of  a 
wrecked  brigantine.  The  gateway  to  the  garden 
was  the  door  of  an  old  wheel-house.  There  was  a 
pergola  constructed  from  the  timbers  of  a  four- 
masted  schooner  that  had  broken  up  on  the  third 
248 


SALVAGE    POINT 

ledge.  The  bow  of  the  sloop  Christabel,  with  the 
name  still  painted  on  it,  was  just  outside  the  gar 
den-gate.  Everywhere  you  saw  old  anchor-bits, 
and  rudder-posts,  and  knees,  all  silver-greyed  by 
the  weather,  and  fitted  in  to  the  dScor  of  the  place. 

The  prettiest  thing  of  all  was  a  crow's-nest  from 
a  wrecked  brigantine,  perched  on  the  highest  point 
of  the  hill,  and  looking  out  over  the  marvellous 
panorama  of  sea  and  shore,  island  and  mountain. 
Here  we  sat,  after  a  hearty  luncheon  with  Alice  and 
her  three  boys  and  half-a-dozen  others  who  were  with 
them  in  a  kind  of  summer  camp-school;  and  while 
we  smoked  our  pipes,  Will  Hermann  told  this 
story. 

"You  see,  Alice  and  I  have  a  mania  for  things 
that  have  been  salvaged.  We  don't  like  the  idea 
of  the  wrecks,  of  course.  But  they  would  happen 
any  way,  whether  we  were  here  or  not.  And  since 
that  is  so,  we  like  to  live  here  on  the  point  and  help 
save  what  we  can.  Sometimes  we  get  a  chance  to 
do  something  for  the  crews  of  the  little  ships  that 
come  ashore — hot  supper  and  dry  clothes  and  so 
forth.  But  the  most  interesting  salvage  case  that 
249 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

we  ever  had  on  the  point  was  one  in  which  there  was 
really  no  wreck  at  all. 

"It  was  a  bright  September  afternoon  ten  years 
ago — one  of  those  silver-blue  days  when  there  is  a 
little  quivering  haze  in  the  air  everywhere,  but  no 
fog.  We  were  sitting  up  here  and  looking  out  to 
sea.  Just  beyond  the  end  of  Dunker  Rock  a  large 
motor-boat  came  in  sight  through  the  haze.  She 
was  about  sixty  feet  long,  with  a  low  cabin  for 
ward,  a  cockpit  aft,  and  a  raised  place  for  the 
steersman  amidship — a  good-looking  craft,  and 
evidently  very  speedy.  She  carried  no  flag  or  pen 
nant.  She  came  driving  on,  full  tilt,  straight  to 
ward  us.  We  supposed  of  course  she  would  turn 
east  through  the  narrow  channel  to  Winterport,  or 
sheer  off  to  the  west  into  the  Southern  Way  and  go 
up  the  bay.  But  not  a  point  did  she  swerve.  Steady 
on  she  came,  toward  the  three  big  ledges  that  lie 
out  there  beyond  that  bit  of  shingly  beach  at  the 
end  of  the  point. 

"  'I  can't  see  any  helmsman,'  said  Alice,  *  those 
people  must  be  asleep  or  crazy.  Give  them  a  hail 
through  the  megaphone.  Perhaps  you  can  make 
them  hear.' 

250 


SALVAGE    POINT 

"So  I  yelled  at  the  top  of  my  lungs,  and  Alice 
waved  her  jersey.  We  might  as  well  have  hailed  a 
comet.  That  boat  ran  straight  for  the  ledges  as  if 
she  meant  to  hurdle  them.  She  came  near  doing 
it,  too.  Over  the  first  she  scraped,  as  if  her  heel 
had  hit  it.  Over  the  second  she  shivered,  hanging 
there  for  a  second  till  a  wave  lifted  her.  On  the 
third  she  bumped  hard  and  checked  her  way  for  a 
moment,  but  the  engine  kept  going,  and  finally  she 
got  herself  over  somehow  and  ran  head  on  to  the 
beach. 

"Of  course  we  were  excited,  and  everybody  hurried 
down  to  see  what  this  crazy  performance  meant. 
There  was  not  a  creature  on  the  boat,  alive  or  dead. 

"Everything  was  shipshape.  The  little  craft  had 
evidently  been  used  for  fishing.  There  were  rough 
men's  clothes  on  board,  rubber  boots  and  oilskins, 
fresh  water  and  provisions,  blankets  in  the  cabin, 
fishing-lines  and  bait  in  the  cockpit,  gasolene  in  the 
tanks — a  nice  little  outfit,  all  complete,  and  no  one 
to  run  it. 

"Where  had  she  come  from?  There  were  no 
names  on  bow  or  stern,  no  papers  in  the  cabin.  Who 
had  started  her  on  this  crazy  voyage?  How  did 
251 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

she  get  away  from  them  ?  Had  they  perhaps  aban 
doned  her  and  cast  her  adrift  for  some  mysterious 
reason  ?  Undoubtedly  there  were  men — apparently 
three — on  board  when  she  set  out.  What  had  hap 
pened  to  them?  A  drunken  quarrel?  Or  possibly 
one  of  the  men  had  fallen  overboard;  the  others 
had  jumped  in  to  save  him;  the  engine  had  started 
up  and  the  boat  left  them  all  in  the  lurch.  Perhaps 
one  or  all  of  them  may  have  had  some  reason  for 
wanting  to  *  disappear  without  a  trace,'  so  they  hit 
upon  the  plan  of  going  ashore  at  some  lonely  place 
and  turning  the  boat  loose  to  wreck  herself.  That 
would  have  been  a  stupid  scheme  of  course,  but  not 
too  stupid  to  be  human. 

"  It  was  just  a  little  piece  of  sea  mystery  to  which 
we  had  no  clew.  So  we  debated  it  for  an  hour,  and 
then  set  about  the  more  important  work  of  salvaging 
the  stranded  derelict.  Fortunately  she  went  ashore 
near  the  last  of  the  ebb,  and  now  lay  comfortably 
in  the  mud,  apparently  little  damaged  except  for 
some  long  scratches  on  her  side,  and  a  broken  blade 
in  her  propeller.  We  dug  away  the  mud  at  bow 
and  stern,  made  fast  a  tow-line,  and  when  the  tide 


SALVAGE    POINT 

came  in  my  small  cruiser  pulled  her  off  easily.  In 
the  morning  the  mysterious  stranger  lay  at  anchor 
in  the  cove  round  the  corner,  as  quiet  as  a  China 
duck. 

"  Of  course  we  advertised  in  the  coast  newspapers, 
giving  a  description  of  the  boat — 'came  ashore,'  etc. 

"Three  days  later  a  boy  about  thirteen  years  old 
turned  up  at  Winterport.  He  came  from  a  village 
at  the  northeast  corner  of  the  bay  forty  miles  away. 
He  guessed  the  boat  was  his  father's,  but  couldn't 
say  for  sure  until  he  had  seen  it.  So  he  came  down 
to  the  point  and  identified  it  beyond  a  doubt.  He 
told  his  story  very  simply. 

"The  boat  belonged  to  his  father,  who  was  a 
widow-man  with  only  one  child.  He  used  the  boat 
for  fishing,  and  sometimes  he  took  Johnny  with 
him,  sometimes  not.  On  the  trips  without  the  boy 
he  used  to  stay  out  longer,  sometimes  a  week  or 
ten  days.  About  a  week  ago  he  had  started  out  on 
one  of  these  trips  with  two  other  men.  They  had 
a  dory  in  tow.  They  hadn't  come  back.  Johnny 
had  seen  the  piece  in  the  paper.  Here  was  the  boat, 
for  sure,  but  no  dory.  As  for  the  rest  of  the  story 
253 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

— well,  that  was  all  that  Johnny  had  to  tell  us  about 
it — the  mystery  was  as  far  away  as  ever. 

"He  was  a  fine,  sturdy  little  chap,  with  tanned 
face  and  clear  blue  eyes.  He  was  rather  shaken  by 
his  experience,  of  course,  but  he  wouldn't  cry — not 
for  the  world.  We  were  glad  to  take  him  in  for 
the  night,  while  we  verified  his  story  by  telegraph. 
It  seemed  the.  boat  was  practically  his  only  inheri 
tance,  and  the  first  question  he  asked,  after  we  had 
gone  over  it,  was  how  much  we  wanted  him  to  pay 
for  salvage. 

'  'Just  one  cent,'  said  Alice,  taking  the  words 
out  of  my  mouth,  'and  what  is  more,  we  are  going 
to  have  her  repaired  for  you.  She  isn't  much  hurt.' 
So  the  boy  stammered  out  the  best  kind  of  a  '  thank 
you '  that  he  could  manage,  and  the  look  in  his  eyes 
made  up  for  the  lack  of  words.  That  was  the  time 
that  he  came  nearest  to  crying.  But  Alice  saved 
him  by  asking  what  he  was  going  to  do  with  the 
boat. 

"He  had  an  idea  that  he  could  run  her  himself, 
perhaps  with  another  man  to  help  him,  for  fishing 
in  the  fall,  and  for  pleasure  parties  in  the  summer. 


SALVAGE    POINT 

He  didn't  want  to  cut  loose  from  home  altogether 
and  sell  the  boat.  Perhaps  Dad  might  come  back, 
some  day,  or  send  a  letter.  Anyway  Johnny  wanted 
to  stay  by  a  seafaring  life. 

"So  we  arranged  the  repairs  and  all  that,  and  got 
a  man  to  help  on  the  homeward  trip,  and  after  a 
few  days  Johnny  sailed  off  with  his  patrimony. 
That  is  what  Alice  and  I  consider  our  neatest  job  of 
salvage." 

"Did  it  work  all  right?"  I  asked. 

"Finely,"  said  Will  Hermann,  "like  a  charm." 

"And  where  is  the  lad  now?" 

"Bo'sun's  mate  on  a  certain  destroyer  somewhere 
off  the  coast  of  France,  fighting  in  the  U.  S.  Navee." 

"And  the  father?"  I  inquired,  being  one  of  those 
old-fashioned  persons  who  like  all  the  loose  ends  of 
a  story  to  be  tied  up.  "Was  anything  ever  heard 
of  him?" 

"That,"  answered  my  friend,  carefully  shaking 
out  the  ashes  of  his  pipe  beyond  the  crow's-nest 
rail,  "that  belongs  in  a  different  compartment  of 
the  ship." 


255 


THE    BOY    OF    NAZARETH 
DREAMS 


THE   BOY   OF   NAZARETH  DREAMS 

THERE  was  a  Boy  in  Nazareth  long  ago  whose 
after-life  was  wonderful,  and  whose  story  is  written 
in  the  heart  of  mankind.  His  birth  was  predicted 
in  dreams  foretelling  marvellous  things  of  him,  and 
in  later  years  there  were  many  true  visions  wherein 
he  played  a  wondrous  part. 

Did  he  not  also  dream,  in  the  days  of  his  youth, 
while  he  was  growing  in  wisdom  and  stature,  and 
in  favor  with  God  and  man?  It  would  be  strange 
indeed  if  his  boyhood  was  not  often  visited  and 
illumined  by  those  swift  flashes  of  insight  and  clear 
unveilings  of  hidden  things,  which  we  call  dreams 
but  which  are  in  truth  rays  from  "the  fountain 
light  of  all  our  day." 

The  first  journey  that  he  made,  his  earliest  visit 
to  a  great  city,  the  three  days  and  nights  when  he 
was  lost  there — surely  these  were  times  when  visions 
must  have  come  to  him,  full  of  mystery  and  wonder, 
yet  clothed  in  the  simple,  real  forms  of  this  world 
which  he  was  learning  to  know.  So  I  let  my  revery 
259 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

follow  him  on  that  unrecorded  path,  remembering 
where  it  led  him,  and  imagining,  in  the  form  of 
dreams,  what  may  have  met  him  on  his  way. 


THE  JOURNEY  TO  THE   CITY 

THERE  was  not  a  lad  in  the  country  town  of 
Nazareth,  nestled  high  on  the  bosom  of  the  Galilean 
hills,  who  did  not  often  look  eagerly  southward 
over  the  plain  toward  the  dark  mountains  of 
Samaria,  and  think  of  the  great  city  which  lay  be 
yond  them,  and  long  for  the  time  when  he  would 
be  old  enough  to  go  with  his  family  on  pilgrimage 
to  Jerusalem. 

That  journey  would  carry  him  out  of  childhood. 
It  would  mark  the  beginning  of  his  life  as  a  "son 
of  the  commandment,"  a  member  of  the  Hebrew 
nation.  Moreover  it  would  be  an  adventure — a 
very  great  and  joyous  adventure,  which  youth 
loves. 

Palestine,  in  the  days  when  Augustus  Caesar  was 
Lord  of  the  World,  was  an  exciting  country  to  travel 
260 


THE   BOY   OF  NAZARETH  DREAMS 

in.  It  was  full  of  rovers  and  soldiers  of  fortune 
from  many  lands.  It  was  troubled  by  mobs  and 
tumults  and  rebellions,  infested  with  landlopers 
and  brigands.  Jerusalem  itself  was  not  only  a  great 
city,  it  was  a  boisterous  and  boiling  city,  crowded 
with  visitors  from  all  parts  of  the  world,  merchants 
and  travellers,  princes  and  beggars,  citizens  of 
Rome  and  children  of  the  Desert.  There  were 
strange  sights  to  be  seen  there,  and  all  kinds  of 
things  were  sold  in  the  markets.  So  while  the  heart 
of  young  Nazareth  longed  for  it,  the  heart  of  older 
Nazareth  was  not  without  anxieties  and  appre 
hensions  in  regard  to  the  first  pilgrimage. 

This  was  doubly  true  in  the  home  of  the  Boy 
of  whom  I  speak.  He  was  the  first-born,  the  dar 
ling  of  his  parents,  a  lad  beloved  by  all  who  knew 
him.  His  mother  hung  on  him  with  mystical  joy 
and  hope.  He  was  the  apple  of  her  eye.  Deep  in 
her  soul  she  kept  the  memory  of  angelic  words  which 
had  come  to  her  while  she  carried  him  under  her 
heart — words  which  made  her  believe  that  her  son 
would  be  the  morning-star  of  Israel  and  a  light  unto 
the  Gentiles.  So  she  cherished  the  Boy  and  watched 
261 


vTHE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

over  him  with  tender,  unfailing  care,  as  her  most 
precious  possession,  her  living,  breathing,  growing 
treasure. 

When  he  reached  the  age  of  twelve,  he  was  old 
enough  to  go  up  to  the  Temple  and  take  part  in 
the  national  feast  of  the  Passover.  So  she  clad 
him  in  the  garments  of  youth  and  made  him  ready 
for  the  four  days'  pilgrimage. 

It  was  a  camping-trip,  a  wonder-walk,  full  of 
variety,  with  a  spice  of  danger  and  a  feast  of  de 
light. 

The  Boy  was  the  joy  of  the  journey.  His  keen 
interest  in  all  things  seen  and  heard  was  like  a  re 
freshing  spring  of  water  to  the  older  pilgrims.  They 
had  so  often  travelled  the  same  road  that  they  had 
forgotten  that  it  might  be  new  every  morning.  His 
unwearying  vigor  and  gladness  as  he  ran  down  the 
hillsides,  or  scrambled  among  the  rocks  far  above 
the  path,  or  roamed  through  the  fields  filling  his 
hands  with  flowers,  was  like  a  merry  song  that 
cheered  the  long  miles  of  the  way.  He  was  glad  to 
be  alive,  and  it  made  the  others  glad  to  look  at  him. 

There  were  sixty  or  seventy  kinsfolk  and  neigh- 


THE   BOY   OF  NAZARETH  DREAMS 

bors,  plain  rustic  men  and  women,  in  the  little  com 
pany  that  set  out  from  Nazareth.  The  men  carried 
arms  to  protect  the  caravan  from  robbers  or  ma 
rauders.  As  they  wound  slowly  down  the  steep, 
stony  road  to  the  plain  of  Esdraelon  the  Boy  ran 
ahead,  making  short  cuts,  turning  aside  to  find  a 
partridge's  nest  among  the  bushes,  jumping  from 
rock  to  rock  like  a  young  gazelle,  or  poising  on  the 
edge  of  some  cliff  in  sheer  delight  of  his  own  sure- 
footedness. 

His  body  was  outlined  against  the  sky;  his  blue 
eyes  (like  those  of  his  mother,  who  was  a  maid  of 
Bethlehem)  sparkled  with  the  joy  of  living;  his 
long  hair  was  lifted  and  tossed  by  the  wind  of  April. 
But  his  mother's  look  followed  him  anxiously,  and 
her  heart  often  leaped  in  her  throat. 

"My  son,"  she  said,  as  they  took  their  noon- 
meal  in  the  valley  at  the  foot  of  dark  Mount  Gil- 
boa,  "you  must  be  more  careful.  Your  feet  might 
slip:" 

"Mother,"  answered  the  Boy,  "I  am  truly  very 
careful.  I  always  put  my  feet  in  the  places  that 
God  has  made  for  them — on  the  big,  strong  rocks 
263 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

that  will  not  roll.    It  is  only  because  I  am  so  happy 
that  you  think  I  am  careless." 

The  tents  were  pitched,  the  first  night,  under 
the  walls  of  Bethshan,  a  fortified  city  of  the  Romans. 
Set  on  a  knoll  above  the  river  Jordan,  the  town 
loomed  big  and  threatening  over  the  little  camp 
of  the  Galilean  pilgrims.  But  they  kept  aloof  from 
it,  because  it  was  a  city  of  the  heathen.  Its  theatres 
and  temples  and  palaces  were  accursed.  The  tents 
were  indifferent  to  the  city,  and  when  the  night 
opened  its  star-fields  above  them  and  the  heavenly 
lights  rose  over  the  mountains  of  Moab  and  Sa 
maria,  the  Boy's  clear  voice  joined  in  the  slumber- 
song  of  the  pilgrims: 

"I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes  to  the  hills, 
From  whence  cometh  my  help; 
My  help  cometh  from  the  Lord, 
Who  made  heaven  and  earth. 
He  will  not  suffer  thy  foot  to  stumble, 
He  who  keepeth  thee  will  not  slumber. 
Behold,  He  who  guardeth  Israel 
Will  neither  slumber  nor  sleep." 

Then  they  drew  their  woollen  cloaks  over  their  heads 
and  rested  on  the  ground  in  peace. 
264 


THE   BOY   OF   NAZARETH   DREAMS 

For  two  days  their  way  led  through  the  wide 
valley  of  the  Jordan,  along  the  level  land  that 
stretched  from  the  mountains  on  either  side  to  the 
rough  gulch  where  the  river  was  raging  through  its 
jungle.  They  passed  through  broad  fields  of  ripe 
barley  and  ripening  wheat,  where  the  quail  scuttled 
and  piped  among  the  thick-growing  stalks.  There 
were  fruit-orchards  and  olive-groves  on  the  foot 
hills,  and  clear  streams  ran  murmuring  down  through 
glistening  oleander  thickets.  Wild  flowers  sprang 
in  every  untilled  corner;  tall  spikes  of  hollyhocks, 
scarlet  and  blue  anemones,  clusters  of  mignonette, 
rock-roses,  and  cyclamens,  purple  iris  in  the  moist 
places,  and  many-colored  spathes  of  gladiolus  grow 
ing  plentifully  among  the  wheat. 

The  larks  sang  themselves  into  the  sky  in  the 
early  morn.  Hotter  grew  the  sun  and  heavier  the 
air  in  that  long  trough  below  the  level  of  the  sea. 
The  song  of  birds  melted  away.  Only  the  hawks 
wheeled  on  motionless  wings  above  silent  fields, 
watching  for  the  young  quail  or  the  little  rabbits, 
hidden  among  the  grain. 

The  pilgrims  plodded  on  in  the  heat.  Companies 
265 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

of  soldiers  with  glittering  arms,  merchants  with 
laden  mules  jingling  their  bells,  groups  of  ragged 
thieves  and  bold  beggars  met  and  jostled  the  peace 
ful  travellers  on  the  road.  Once  a  little  band  of 
robbers,  riding  across  the  valley  to  the  land  of  Moab, 
turned  from  a  distance  toward  the  Nazarenes,  circled 
swiftly  around  them  like  hawks,  whistling  and  call 
ing  shrilly  to  one  another.  But  there  was  small 
booty  in  that  country  caravan,  and  the  men  who 
guarded  it  looked  strong  and  tough;  so  the  robbers 
whirled  away  as  swiftly  as  they  had  come. 
(  The  Boy  had  stood  close  to  his  father  in  this 
moment  of  danger,  looking  on  with  surprise  at  the 
actions  of  the  horsemen. 

"What  did  those  riders  want?"  he  asked. 

"All  we  have,"  answered  the  man. 

"But  it  is  very  little,"  said  the  Boy.  "Nothing 
but  our  clothes  and  some  food  for  our  journey.  If 
they  were  hungry,  why  did  they  not  ask  of  us?" 

The  man  laughed.  "These  are  not  the  kind  that 
ask,"  he  said,  "they  are  the  kind  that  take — what 
they  will  and  when  they  can." 

" I  do  not  like  them,"  said  the  Boy.    " Their  horses 
266 


THE   BOY   OF  NAZARETH   DREAMS 

were  beautiful,  but  their  faces  were  hateful — like 
a  jackal  that  I  saw — in  the  gulley  behind  Nazareth 
one  night.  His  eyes  were  burning  red  as  fire.  Those 
men  had  fires  inside  of  them." 

For  the  rest  of  that  afternoon  he  walked  more 
quietly  and  with  thoughtful  looks,  as  if  he  were 
pondering  the  case  of  men  who  looked  like  jackals 
and  had  flames  within  them. 

At  sunset,  when  the  camp  was  made  outside  the 
gates  of  the  new  city  of  Archelaus,  on  a  hillock 
among  the  corn-fields,  he  came  to  his  mother  with 
his  hands  full  of  the  long  lavender  and  rose  and 
pale-blue  spathes  of  the  gladiolus-lilies. 

"Look,  mother,"  he  cried,  "are  they  not  fine — 
like  the^clothes  of  a  king?" 

"What  do  you  know  of  kings?"  she  answered, 
smiling.  "These  are  only  wild  lilies  of  the  field. 
But  a  great  king,  like  Solomon,  has  robes  of  thick 
silk,  and  jewels  on  his  neck  and  his  fingers,  and  a 
big  crown  of  gold  on  his  head." 

"But  that  must  be  very  heavy,"  said  the  Boy, 
tossing  his  head  lightly.  "It  must  tire  him  to  wear 
a  crown-thing  and  such  thick  robes.  Besides,  I 
267 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

think  the  lilies  are  really  prettier.  They  look  just 
as  if  they  were  glad  to  grow  in  the  field." 

The  third  night  they  camped  among  the  palm- 
groves  and  heavy-odored  gardens  of  Jericho,  where 
Herod's  splendid  palace  rose  above  the  trees.  The 
fourth  day  they  climbed  the  wild,  steep,  robber- 
haunted  road  from  the  Jordan  valley  to  the  high 
lands  of  Judea,  and  so  came  at  sundown  to  their 
camp-ground  among  friends  and  neighbors  on  the 
closely  tented  slope  of  the  Mount  of  Olives,  over 
against  Jerusalem. 

What  an  evening  that  was  for  the  Boy !  His 
first  sight  of  the  holy  city,  the  city  of  the  great  king, 
the  city  lifted  up  and  exalted  on  the  sides  of  the 
north,  beautiful  for  situation,  the  joy  of  the  whole 
earth !  He  had  dreamed  of  her  glory  as  he  listened 
at  his  mother's  knee  to  the  wonder-tales  of  David 
and  Solomon  and  the  brave  adventures  of  the  fight 
ing  Maccabees.  He  had  prayed  for  the  peace  of 
Jerusalem  every  night  as  he  kneeled  by  his  bed 
and  lifted  his  hands  toward  the  holy  place.  He  had 
tried  a  thousand  times  to  picture  her  strength  and 
her  splendor,  her  marvels  and  mysteries,  her  multi- 


THE  BOY  OF  NAZARETH  DREAMS 

tude  of  houses  and  her  vast  bulwarks,  as  he  strayed 
among  the  humble  cottages  of  Nazareth  or  sat  in 
the  low  doorway  of  his  own  home. 

Now  his  dream  had  come  true.  He  looked  into 
the  face  of  Jerusalem,  just  across  the  deep,  narrow 
valley  of  the  Kidron,  where  the  shadows  of  the  eve 
ning  were  rising  among  the  tombs.  The  huge  battle- 
mented  walls,  encircling  the  double  mounts  of  Zion 
and  Moriah — the  vast  huddle  of  white  houses, 
covering  hill  and  hollow  with  their  flat  roofs  and 
standing  so  close  together  that  the  streets  were 
hidden  among  them — the  towers,  the  colonnades, 
the  terraces — the  dark  bulk  of  the  Roman  castle — 
the  marble  pillars  and  glittering  roof  of  the  Temple 
in  its  broad  court  on  the  hilltop — it  was  a  city 
of  stone  and  ivory  and  gold,  rising  clear  against 
the  soft  saffron  and  rose  and  violet  of  the  sunset 
sky. 

The  Boy  sat  with  his  mother  on  the  hillside  while 
the  light  waned,  and  the  lamps  began  to  twinkle 
in  the  city,  the  stars  to  glow  in  the  deepening  blue. 
He  questioned  her  eagerly — what  is  that  black 
tower? — why  does  the  big  roof  shine  so  bright? — 
269 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

where  was  King  David's  house? — where  are  we 
going  to-morrow? 

"To-morrow,"  she  answered,  "you  will  see.  But 
now  it  is  the  sleep-time.  Let  us  sing  the  psalm  that 
we  used  to  sing  at  night  in  Nazareth — but  very 
softly,  not  to  disturb  the  others — for  you  know  this 
psalm  is  not  one  of  the  songs  of  the  pilgrimage." 

So  the  mother  and  her  Child  sang  together  with 
low  voices: 

"In  peace  will  I  both  lay  me  down  and  sleep, 
For  thou,  Lord,  makest  me  dwell  in  safety." 

The  tune  and  the  words  quieted  the  Boy.  It  was 
like  a  bit  of  home  in  a  far  land. 

II 

THE   GILDED   TEMPLE 

THE  next  day  was  full  of  wonder  and  excitement. 
It  was  the  first  day  of  the  Feast,  and  the  myriads 
of  pilgrims  crowded  through  the  gates  and  streets 
of  the  city,  all  straining  toward  the  enclosure  of  the 
Temple,  within  whose  walls  two  hundred  thousand 
people  could  be  gathered.  On  every  side  the  Boy 
270 


THE   BOY   OF   NAZARETH  DREAMS 

saw  new  and  strange  things :  soldiers  in  their  armor, 
and  shops  full  of  costly  wares;  richly  dressed  Sad- 
ducees  with  their  servants  following;  Jews  from 
far-away  countries,  and  curious  visitors  from  all 
parts  of  the  world;  ragged  children  of  the  city,  and 
painted  women  of  the  street,  and  beggars  and  out 
casts  of  the  lower  quarters,  and  rich  ladies  with 
their  retinues,  and  priests  in  their  snowy  robes. 

The  family  from  Nazareth  passed  slowly  through 
the  confusion,  and  the  Boy,  bewildered  by  the 
changing  scene,  longed  to  get  to  the  Temple.  He 
thought  everything  must  be  quiet  and  holy  there. 
But  when  they  came  into  the  immense  outer  court, 
with  its  porticos  and  alcoves,  he  found  the  confusion 
worse  than  ever.  For  there  the  money-changers 
and  the  buyers  and  sellers  of  animals  for  sacrifice 
were  bargaining  and  haggling;  and  the  thousands 
of  people  were  jostling  and  pushing  one  another; 
and  the  followers  of  the  Pharisees  and  the  Sadducees 
were  disputing;  and  on  many  faces  he  saw  that 
strange  look  which  speaks  of  a  fire  in  the  heart,  so 
that  it  seemed  like  a  meeting-place  of  robbers. 

His  father  had  bought  a  lamb  for  the  Passover 
271 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

sacrifice,  at  one  of  the  stalls  in  the  outer  court,  and 
was  carrying  it  on  his  shoulder.  He  pressed  on 
through  the  crowd  at  the  Beautiful  Gate,  the  Boy 
and  his  mother  following  until  they  came  to  the 
Court  of  the  Women.  Here  the  mother  stayed, 
for  that  was  the  law — a  woman  must  not  go  farther. 
But  the  Boy  was  now  "a  son  of  the  Command 
ment,"  and  he  followed  his  father  through  the  Court 
of  Israel  to  the  entrance  of  the  Court  of  the  Priests. 
There  the  little  lamb  was  given  to  a  priest,  who 
carried  it  away  to  the  great  stone  altar  in  the  middle 
of  the  court. 

The  Boy  could  not  see  what  happened  then,  for 
the  place  was  crowded  and  busy.  But  he  heard 
the  blowing  of  trumpets,  and  the  clashing  of  cym 
bals,  and  the  chanting  of  psalms.  Black  clouds  of 
smoke  went  up  from  the  hidden  altar;  the  floor 
around  was  splashed  and  streaked  with  red.  After 
a  long  while,  as  it  seemed,  the  priest  brought  back 
the  dead  body  of  the  lamb,  prepared  for  the  Pass 
over  supper. 

"Is  this  our  little  lamb?"  asked  the  Boy  as  his 
father  took  it  again  upon  his  shoulder. 
272 


THE  BOY  OF  NAZARETH  DREAMS 

The  father  nodded. 

"It  was  a  very  pretty  one,"  said  the  Boy.  "Did 
it  have  to  die?" 

The  father  looked  down  at  him  curiously. 
"Surely,"  he  said,  "it  had  to  be  offered  on  the 
altar,  so  that  we  can  keep  our  feast  according  to 
the  law  of  Moses  to-night." 

"But  why,"  persisted  the  Boy,  "must  all  the 
lambs  be  killed  in  the  Temple?  Does  God  like 
that?  How  many  do  you  suppose  were  brought 
to  the  altar  to-day?" 

"Tens  of  thousands,"  answered  the  father. 

"It  is  a  great  many,"  said  the  Boy,  sighing.  "I 
wish  one  was  enough." 

He  was  silent  and  thoughtful  as  they  made  their 
way  through  the  Court  of  the  Women  and  found 
the  mother  and  went  back  to  the  camp  on  the  hill 
side.  That  night  the  family  ate  their  Paschal  feast, 
with  their  loins  girded  as  if  they  were  going  on  a 
journey,  in  memory  of  the  long-ago  flight  of  the 
Israelites  from  Egypt.  There  was  the  roasted  lamb, 
with  bitter  herbs,  and  flat  cakes  of  bread  made  with 
out  yeast.  A  cup  of  wine  was  passed  around  the 
273 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

table  four  times.  The  Boy  asked  his  father  the 
meaning  of  all  these  things,  and  the  father  repeated 
the  story  of  the  saving  of  the  first-born  sons  of  Israel 
in  that  far-off  night  of  terror  and  death  when  they 
came  out  of  Egypt.  While  the  supper  was  going 
on,  hymns  were  sung,  and  when  it  was  ended  they 
all  chanted  together: 

"Oh,  give  thanks  to  the  Lord,  for  He  is  good; 
For  His  loving-kindness  endureth  for  ever." 

So  the  Boy  lay  down  under  his  striped  woollen 
cloak  of  blue  and  white  and  drifted  toward  sleep, 
glad  that  he  was  a  son  of  Israel,  but  sorry  when  he 
thought  of  the  thousands  of  little  lambs  and  the 
altar  floor  splashed  with  red.  He  wondered  if  some 
day  God  would  not  give  them  another  way  to  keep 
that  feast. 

The  next  day  of  the  festival  was  a  Sabbath,  on 
which  no  work  could  be  done.  But  the  daily  sacri 
fice  of  the  Temple,  and  all  the  services  and  songs 
and  benedictions  in  its  courts,  continued  as  usual, 
and  there  was  a  greater  crowd  than  ever  within 
its  walls.  As  the  Boy  went  thither  with  his  parents 
274 


THE   BOY   OF   NAZARETH  DREAMS 

they  came  to  a  place  where  a  little  house  was  be 
ginning  to  burn,  set  on  fire  by  an  overturned  lamp. 
The  poor  people  stood  by,  wringing  their  hands 
and  watching  the  flames. 

"Why  do  they  not  try  to  save  their  house?" 
cried  the  Boy. 

The  father  shook  his  head.  "They  can  do 
nothing,"  he  answered.  "They  follow  the  teach 
ing  of  the  Pharisees,  who  say  that  it  is  unlawful 
to  put  out  a  fire  on  the  Sabbath,  because  it  is 
a  labor." 

A  little  later  the  Boy  saw  a  cripple  with  a  crutch, 
sitting  in  the  door  of  a  cottage,  looking  very  sad 
and  lonely. 

"Why  does  he  not  go  with  the  others,"  asked 
the  Boy,  "  and  hear  the  music  at  the  Temple  ?  That 
would  make  him  happier.  Can't  he  walk  ?  " 

"Yes,"  answered  the  father,  "he  can  hop  along 
pretty  well  with  his  crutch  on  other  days,  but  not 
on  the  Sabbath,  for  he  would  have  to  carry  his 
crutch,  and  that  would  be  labor." 

All  the  time  he  was  in  the  Temple,  watching  the 
procession  of  priests  and  Levites  and  listening  to 
275 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

the  music,  the  Boy  was  thinking  what  the  Sab 
bath  meant,  and  whether  it  really  rested  people 
and  made  them  happier. 

The  third  day  of  the  festival  was  the  offering 
of  the  first-fruits  of  the  new  year's  harvest.  That 
was  a  joyous  day.  A  sheaf  of  ripe  barley  was  reaped 
and  carried  into  the  Temple  and  presented  before 
the  high  altar  with  incense  and  music.  The  priests 
blessed  the  people,  and  the  people  shouted  and  sang 
for  gladness. 

The  Boy's  heart  bounded  in  his  breast  as  he  joined 
in  the  song  and  thought  of  the  bright  summer  begun, 
and  the  birds  building  their  nests,  and  the  flowers 
clothing  the  hills  with  beautiful  colors,  and  the 
wide  fields  of  golden  grain  waving  in  the  wind.  He 
was  happy  all  day  as  he  walked  through  the  busy 
streets  with  his  parents,  buying  some  things  that 
were  needed  for  the  home  in  Nazareth;  and  he  was 
happy  at  night  when  he  lay  down  under  an  olive- 
tree  beside  the  tent,  for  the  air  was  warm  and  gentle, 
and  he  fell  asleep  under  the  tree,  dreaming  of  what 
he  would  see  and  do  to-morrow. 


276 


THE   BOY   OF   NAZARETH  DREAMS 
III 

HOW  THE   BOY  WAS  LOST 

Now  comes  the  secret  of  the  way  he  was  lost — 
a  way  so  simple  that  the  wonder  is  that  no  one  has 
ever  dreamed  of  it  before. 

The  three  important  days  of  the  Passover  were 
ended,  and  the  time  had  come  when  those  pilgrims 
who  wished  to  return  to  their  homes  might  leave 
Jerusalem  without  offense,  though  it  was  more  com 
mendable  to  remain  through  the  full  seven  days. 
The  people  from  Nazareth  were  anxious  to  be  gone 
— they  had  a  long  road  to  travel — their  harvests 
were  waiting.  While  the  Boy,  tired  out,  was  sleep 
ing  under  the  tree,  the  question  of  going  home  was 
talked  out  and  decided.  They  would  break  camp 
at  sunrise,  and,  joining  with  others  of  their  country 
men  who  were  tented  around  them,  they  would 
take  the  road  for  Galilee. 

But  the  Boy  awoke  earlier  than  any  one  else  the 

next  morning.     Before  the  dawn  a  linnet  in  the 

tree   overhead   called   him  with   twittering   songs. 

He  was  rested  by  his  long  sleep.    His  breath  came 

277 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

lightly.  The  spirit  of  youth  was  beating  in  his  limbs. 
His  heart  was  eager  for  adventure.  He  longed  for 
the  top  of  a  high  hill — for  the  wide,  blue  sky — for 
the  world  at  his  feet — such  a  sight  as  he  had  often 
found  in  his  rambles  among  the  heights  near  Naza 
reth.  Why  not?  He  would  return  in  time  for  the 
next  visit  to  the  Temple. 

Quietly  he  stepped  among  the  sleeping-tents  in 
the  dark.  A  footpath  led  through  the  shadowy 
olive-grove,  up  the  hillside,  into  the  open.  There 
the  light  was  clearer,  and  the  breeze  that  runs  be 
fore  the  daybreak  was  dancing  through  the  grass. 
The  Boy  turned  to  the  left,  following  along  one  of ' 
the  sheep-trails  that  crossed  the  high,  sloping  pas 
tures.  Then  he  bore  to  the  right,  breasting  the 
long  ridge,  and  passed  the  summit,  running  lightly 
to  the  eastward  until  he  came  to  a  rounded,  rocky 
knoll.  There  he  sat  down  among  the  little  bushes 
to  wait  for  sunrise. 

Far  beyond  the  wrinkled  wilderness  of  Tekoa, 

and  the  Dead  Sea,  and  the  mountain-wall  of  Moab, 

the  rim  of  the  sky  was  already  tinged  with  silvery 

gray.    The  fading  of  the  stars  travelled  slowly  up- 

278 


THE   BOY   OF   NAZARETH  DREAMS 

ward,  and  the  brightening  of  the  rose  of  dawn  fol 
lowed  it,  until  all  the  east  was  softly  glowing  and  the 
deep  blue  of  the  central  heaven  was  transfused  with 
turquoise  light.  Dark  in  the  gulfs  and  chasms  of 
the  furrowed  land  the  night  lingered.  Bright  along 
the  eastern  peaks  and  ridges  the  coming  day,  still 
hidden,  revealed  itself  in  a  fringe  of  dazzling  gold, 
like  the  crest  of  a  long  mounting  wave.  Shoots 
and  flashes  of  radiance  sprang  upward  from  the 
glittering  edge.  Streamers  of  rose-foam  and  gold- 
spray  floated  in  the  sky.  Then  over  the  barrier 
of  the  hills  the  sun  surged  royally — crescent,  half- 
disk,  full-orb — and  overlooked  the  world.  The 
luminous  tide  flooded  the  gray  villages  of  Bethany 
and  Bethphage,  and  all  the  emerald  hills  around 
Bethlehem  were  bathed  in  light. 

The  Boy  sat  entranced,  watching  the  miracle 
by  which  God  makes  His  sun  to  shine  upon  the 
good  and  the  evil.  How  strange  it  was  that  God 
should  do  that — bestow  an  equal  light  upon  those 
who  obeyed  Him  and  those  who  broke  His  law! 
Yet  it  was  splendid,  it  was  King-like  to  give  in  that 
way,  with  both  hands.  No,  it  was  Father-like — 
279 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

and  that  was  what  the  Boy  had  learned  from  his 
mother — that  God  who  made  and  ruled  all  things 
was  his  Father.  It  was  the  name  she  had  taught 
him  to  use  in  his  prayers.  Not  in  the  great  prayers 
he  learned  from  the  book — the  name  there  was 
Adonai,  the  Lord,  the  Almighty.  But  in  the  little 
prayers  that  he  said  by  himself  it  was  "my  Father ! " 
It  made  the  Boy  feel  strangely  happy  and  strong 
to  say  that.  The  whole  world  seemed  to  breathe 
and  glow  around  him  with  an  invisible  presence. 
For  such  a  Father,  for  the  sake  of  His  love  and  favor, 
the  Boy  felt  he  could  do  anything. 

More  than  that,  his  mother  had  told  him  of  some 
thing  special  that  the  Father  had  for  him  to  do  in 
the  world.  In  the  evenings  during  the  journey 
and  when  they  were  going  home  together  from  the 
Temple,  she  had  repeated  to  him  some  of  the  words 
that  the  angel-voices  had  spoken  to  her  heart,  and 
some  of  the  sayings  of  wise  men  from  the  East  who 
came  to  visit  him  when  he  was  a  baby.  She  could 
not  understand  all  the  mystery  of  it;  she  did  not 
see  how  it  was  going  to  be  brought  to  pass.  He  was 
a  child  of  poverty  and  lowliness;  not  rich,  nor 
280 


THE   BOY   OF   NAZARETH  DREAMS 

learned,  nor  powerful.  But  with  God  all  things 
were  possible.  The  choosing  and  calling  of  the 
eternal  Father  were  more  than  everything  else. 
It  was  fixed  in  her  heart  that  somehow  her  Boy 
was  sent  to  do  a  great  work  for  Israel.  He  was  the 
son  of  God  set  apart  to  save  his  people  and  bring 
back  the  glory  of  Zion.  He  was  to  fulfil  the  promises 
made  in  olden  time  and  bring  in  the  wonderful  reign 
of  the  Messiah  in  the  world — perhaps  as  a  fore 
runner  and  messenger  of  the  great  King,  or  perhaps 
himself — ah,  she  did  not  know !  But  she  believed 
in  her  Boy  with  her  whole  soul;  and  she  was  sure 
that  his  Father  would  show  him  what  to  do. 

These  sayings,  coming  amid  the  excitements  of 
his  first  journey,  his  visit  to  the  Temple,  his  earliest 
sight  of  the  splendor  and  confusion  and  misery  of 
the  great  city,  had  sunken  all  the  more  deeply  into 
the  Boy's  mind.  Excitement  does  not  blur  the 
impressions  of  youth;  it  sharpens  them,  makes 
them  more  vivid.  Half-covered  and  hardly  noticed 
at  the  time,  they  spring  up  into  life  when  the  quiet 
hour  comes. 

So  the  Boy  remembered  his  mother's  words  while 
281 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

he  lay  watching  the  sunrise.  It  would  be  great  to 
make  them  come  true.  To  help  everybody  to  feel 
what  he  felt  there  on  the  hilltop — that  big,  free 
feeling  of  peace  and  confidence  and  not  being  afraid  ! 
To  make  those  robbers  in  the  Jordan  valley  see 
how  they  were  breaking  the  rule  of  the  world  and 
burning  out  their  own  hearts  !  To  cleanse  the  Tem 
ple  from  the  things  that  filled  it  with  confusion  and 
pain,  and  drive  away  the  brawling  buyers  and  sellers 
who  were  spoiling  his  Father's  great  house !  To 
go  among  those  poor  and  wretched  and  sorrowful 
folks  who  swarmed  in  Jerusalem  and  teach  them 
that  God  was  their  Father  too,  and  that  they  must 
not  sin  and  quarrel  any  more !  To  find  a  better 
way  than  the  priests'  and  the  Pharisees'  of  making 
people  good!  To  do  great  things  for  Israel — like 
Moses,  like  Joshua,  like  David — or  like  Daniel, 
perhaps,  who  prayed  and  was  not  afraid  of  the  lions 
— or  like  Elijah  and  Elisha,  who  went  about  speak 
ing  to  the  people  and  healing  them 

The  soft  tread  of  bare  feet  among  the  bushes 
behind  him  roused  the  Boy.     He  sprang  up  and 
saw  a  man  with  a  stern  face  and  long  hair  and  beard 
282 


THE   BOY  OF   NAZARETH  DREAMS 

looking  at  him  mysteriously.  The  man  was  dressed 
in  white,  with  a  leathern  girdle  round  his  waist, 
into  which  a  towel  was  thrust.  A  leathern  wallet 
hung  from  his  neck,  and  he  leaned  upon  a  long  staff. 

"Peace  be  with  you,  Rabbi,"  said  the  Boy, 
reverently  bowing  at  the  stranger's  feet.  But  the 
man  looked  at  him  steadily  and  did  not  speak. 

The  Boy  was  confused  by  the  silence.  •  The  man's 
eyes  troubled  him  with  their  secret  look,  but  he 
was  not  afraid. 

"Who  are  you,  sir,"  he  asked,  "and  what  is  your 
will  with  me?  Perhaps  you  are  a  master  of  the 
Pharisees  or  a  scribe?  But  no — there  are  no  broad 
blue  fringes  on  your  garments.  Are  you  a  priest, 
then?" 

The  man  shook  his  head,  frowning.  "I  despise 
the  priests,'|he  answered,  "and  I  abhor  their  bloody 
and  unclean  sacrifices.  I  am  Enoch  the  Essene, 
a  holy  one,  a  perfect  keeper  of  the  law.  I  live  with 
those  who  have  never  defiled  themselves  with  the 
eating  of  meat,  nor  with  marriage,  nor  with  wine; 
but  we  have  all  things  in  common,  and  we  are  bap 
tized  in  pure  water  every  day  for  the  purifying  of 
283 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

our  wretched  bodies,  and  after  that  we  eat  the  daily 
feast  of  love  in  the  kingdom  of  the  Messiah  which 
is  at  hand.  Thou  art  called  into  that  kingdom, 
son;  come  with  me,  for  thou  art  called." 

The  Boy  listened  with  astonishment.  Some  of 
the  things  that  the  man  said — for  instance,  about 
the  sacrifices  and  about  the  nearness  of  the  king 
dom — were  already  in  his  heart.  But  other  things 
puzzled  and  bewildered  him. 

"My  mother  says  that  I  am  called,"  he  answered, 
"but  it  is  to  serve  Israel  and  to  help  the  people. 
Where  do  you  live,  sir,  and  what  is  it  that  you  do 
for  the  people  ?  " 

"We  live  among  the  hills  of  that  wilderness,"  he 
answered,  pointing  to  the  south,  "in  the  oasis  of 
Engedi.  There  are  palm-trees  and  springs  of  water, 
and  we  keep  ourselves  pure,  bathing  before  we  eat 
and  offering  our  food  of  bread  and  dates  as  a  sacri 
fice  to  God.  We  all  work  together,  and  none  of  us 
has  anything  that  he  calls  his  own.  We  do  not  go 
up  to  the  Temple  nor  enter  the  synagogues.  We 
have  forsaken  the  uncleanness  of  the  world  and 
all  the  impure  ways  of  men.  Our  only  care  is  to 
284 


THE   BOY   OF   NAZARETH   DREAMS 

keep  ourselves  from  defilement.  If  we  touch  any 
thing  that  is  forbidden  we  wash  our  hands  and  wipe 
them  with  this  towel  that  hangs  from  our  girdle. 
We  alone  are  serving  the  kingdom.  Come,  live 
with  us,  for  I  think  thou  art  chosen." 

The  Boy  thought  for  a  while  before  he  answered. 
"Some  of  it  is  good,  my  master,"  he  said,  "but 
the  rest  of  it  is  far  away  from  my  thoughts.  Is 
there  nothing  for  a  man  to  do  in  the  world  but  to 
think  of  himself — either  in  feasting  and  uncleanness 
as  the  heathen  do,  or  in  fasting  and  purifying  your 
self  as  you  do  ?  How  can  you  serve  the  kingdom  if 
you  turn  away  from  the  people?  They  do  not  see 
you  or  hear  you.  You  are  separate  from  them — 
just  as  if  you  were  dead  without  dying.  You  can 
do  nothing  for  them.  No,  I  do  not  want  to  come 
with  you  and  live  at  Engedi.  I  think  my  Father 
will  show  me  something  better  to  do." 

"Your  Father!"  said  Enoch  the  Essene.  "Who 
is  He?" 

"Surely,"  answered  the  Boy,  "He  is  the  same  as 
yours.    He  that  made  us  and  made  all  that  we  see 
— the  great  world  for  us  to  live  in." 
285 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

"Dust,"  said  the  man,  with  a  darker  frown — 
"dust  and  ashes!  It  will  all  perish,  and  thou  with 
it.  Thou  art  not  chosen — not  pure !" 

With  that  he  went  away  down  the  hill;  and  the 
Boy,  surprised  and  grieved  at  his  rude  parting, 
wondered  a  little  over  the  meaning  of  his  words, 
and  then  went  back  as  quickly  as  he  could  toward 
the  tents. 

When  he  came  to  the  olive-grove  they  were  gone  ! 
The  sun  was  already  high,  and  his  people  had  de 
parted  hours  ago.  In  the  hurry  and  bustle  of  break 
ing  camp  each  of  the  parents  had  supposed  that 
the  Boy  was  with  the  other,  or  with  some  of  the 
friends  and  neighbors,  or  perhaps  running  along 
the  hillside  above  them  as  he  used  to  do.  So  they 
went  their  way  cheerfully,  not  knowing  that  they 
had  left  their  son  behind.  This  is  how  it  came  to 
pass  that  he  was  lost. 


286 


THE   BOY   OF   NAZARETH  DREAMS 
IV 

HOW   THE   BOY   WENT  HIS   WAY 

WHEN  the  Boy  saw  what  had  happened  he  was 
surprised  and  troubled,  but  not  frightened.  He 
did  not  know  what  to  do.  He  might  hasten  after 
them,  but  he  could  not  tell  which  way  to  go.  He 
was  not  even  sure  that  they  had  gone  home;  for 
they  had  talked  of  paying  a  visit  to  their  relatives 
in  the  south  before  returning  to  Nazareth;  and 
some  of  the  remaining  pilgrims  to  whom  he  turned 
for  news  of  his  people  said  that  they  had  taken  the 
southern  road  from  the  Mount  of  Olives,  going 
toward  Bethlehem. 

The  Boy  was  at  a  loss,  but  he  was  not  disheart 
ened,  nor  even  cast  down.  He  felt  that  somehow 
all  would  be  well  with  him;  he  would  be  taken  care 
of.  They  would  come  back  for  him  in  good  time. 
Meanwhile  there  were  kind  people  here  who  would 
give  him  food  and  shelter.  There  were  boys  in  the 
other  camps  with  whom  he  could  play.  Best  of 
all,  he  could  go  again  to  the  city  and  the  Temple. 
He  could  see  more  of  the  wonderful  things  there, 
'  287 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

and  watch  the  way  the  people  lived,  and  find  out 
why  so  many  of  them  seemed  sad  or  angry,  and  a 
few  proud  and  scornful,  and  almost  all  looked  un 
satisfied.  Perhaps  he  could  listen  to  some  of  the 
famous  rabbis  who  taught  the  people  in  the  courts 
of  the  Temple  and  learn  from  them  about  the  things 
which  his  Father  had  chosen  him  to  do. 

So  he  went  down  the  hill  and  toward  the  Sheep 
Gate  by  which  he  had  always  gone  into  the  city. 
Outside  the  gate  a  few  boys  about  his  own  age, 
with  a  group  of  younger  children,  were  playing 
games. 

"Look  there,"  they  cried — "a  stranger!  Let 
us  have  some  fun  with  him.  Halloo,  Country,  where 
do  you  come  from  ?  " 

"From  Galilee,"  answered  the  Boy. 

"Galilee  is  where  all  the  fools  live,"  cried  the 
children.  "Where  is  your  home?  What  is  your 
name  ?  " 

He  told  them  pleasantly,  but  they  laughed  at 
his  country  way  of  speaking  and  mimicked  his 
pronunciation. 

"Yalilean!    Yalilean!"  they  cried.     "You  can't 
talk.    Can  you  play?    Come  and  play  with  us." 
288 


THE   BOY   OF   NAZARETH  DREAMS 

So  they  played  together.  First,  they  had  a  mimic 
wedding-procession.  Then  they  made  believe  that 
the  bridegroom  was  killed  by  a  robber,  and  they 
had  a  mock  funeral.  The  Boy  took  always  the 
lowest  part.  He  was  the  hired  mourner  who  fol 
lowed  the  body,  wailing;  he  was  the  flute-player 
who  made  music  for  the  wedding-guests  to  dance  to. 

So  readily  did  he  enter  into  the  play  that  the 
children  at  first  were  pleased  with  him.  But  they 
were  not  long  contented  with  anything.  Some  of 
them  would  dance  no  more  for  the  wedding;  others 
would  lament  no  more  for  the  funeral.  Their 
caprices  made  them  quarrelsome. 

"Yalilean  fool,"  they  cried,  "you  play  it  all 
wrong.  You  spoil  the  game.  We  are  tired  of  it. 
Can  you  run?  Can  you  throw  stones?" 

So  they  ran  races;  and  the  Boy,  trained  among 
the  hills,  outran  the  others.  But  they  said  he  did 
not  keep  to  the  course.  Then  they  threw  stones; 
and  the  Boy  threw  farther  and  straighter  than  any 
of  the  rest.  This  made  them  angry. 

Whispering  together,  they  suddenly  hurled  a 
shower  of  stones  at  him.  One  struck  his  shoulder, 
another  made  a  long  cut  on  his  cheek.  Wiping  away 
289 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

the  blood  with  his  sleeve,  he  turned  silently  and 
ran  to  the  Sheep  Gate,  the  other  boys  chasing  him 
with  loud  shouts. 

He  darted  lightly  through  the  crowd  of  animals 
and  people  that  thronged  the  gateway,  turning 
and  dodging  with  a  sure  foot  among  them  and  run 
ning  up  the  narrow  street  that  led  to  the  sheep- 
market.  The  cries  of  his  pursuers  grew  fainter 
behind  him.  Among  the  stalls  of  the  market  he 
wound  this  way  and  that  way  like  a  hare  before  the 
hounds.  At  last  he  had  left  them  out  of  sight  and 
hearing. 

Then  he  ceased  running  and  wandered  blindly 
on  through  the  northern  quarter  of  the  city.  The 
sloping  streets  were  lined  with  bazaars  and  noisy 
workshops.  The  Roman  soldiers  from  the  castle 
were  sauntering  to  and  fro.  Women  in  rich  attire, 
with  ear-rings  and  gold  chains,  passed  by  with  their 
slaves.  Open  market-places  were  still  busy,  though 
the  afternoon  trade  was  slackening. 

But  the  Boy  was  too  tired  and  faint  with  hunger 
and  heavy  at  heart  to  take  an  interest  in  these  things. 
He  turned  back  toward  the  gate,  and,  missing  his 
290 


THE  BOY  OF  NAZARETH  DREAMS- 

way  a  little,  came  to  a  great  pool  of  water,  walled 
in  with  white  stone,  with  five  porticos  around  it. 
In  some  of  these  porticos  there  were  a  few  people 
lying  upon  mats.  But  one  of  the  porches  was  empty, 
and  here  the  Boy  sat  down. 

He  was  worn  out.  His  cheek  was  bleeding  again, 
and  the  drops  trickled  down  his  neck.  He  went 
down  the  broad  steps  to  the  pool  to  wash  away  the 
blood.  But  he  could  not  do  it  very  well.  His  head 
ached  too  much.  So  he  crept  back  to  the  porch, 
unwound  his  little  turban,  curled  himself  in  a  corner 
on  the  hard  stones,  his  head  upon  his  arm,  and  fell 
sound  asleep. 

He  was  awakened  by  a  voice  calling  him,  a  hand 
laid  upon  his  shoulder.  He  looked  up  and  saw  the 
face  of  a  young  woman,  dark-eyed,  red-lipped,  only 
a  few  years  older  than  himself.  She  was  clad  in 
silk,  with  a  veil  of  gauze  over  her  head,  gold  coins 
in  her  hair,  and  a  phial  of  alabaster  hanging  by  a 
gold  chain  around  her  neck.  A  sweet  perfume  like 
the  breath  of  roses  came  from  it  as  she  moved.  Her 
voice  was  soft  and  kind. 

"Poor  boy,"  she  said,  "you  are  wounded;  some 
291 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

one  has  hurt  you.  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  You 
look  like  a  little  brother  that  I  had  long  ago.  Come 
with  me.  I  will  take  care  of  you." 

The  Boy  rose  and  tried  to  go  with  her.  But  he 
was  stiff  and  sore;  he  could  hardly  walk;  his  head 
was  swimming.  The  young  woman  beckoned  to 
a  Nubian  slave  who  followed  her.  He  took  the 
Boy  in  his  big  black  arms  and  so  carried  him  to  a 
pleasant  house  with  a  garden. 

There  were  couches  and  cushions  there,  in  a 
marble  court  around  a  fountain.  There  were  ser 
vants  who  brought  towels  and  ointments.  The 
young  woman  bathed  the  Boy's  wound  and  his  feet. 
The  servants  came  with  food,  and  she  made  him  eat 
of  the  best.  His  eyes  grew  bright  again,  and  the 
color  came  into  his  cheeks.  He  talked  to  her  of  his 
life  in  Nazareth,  of  the  adventures  of  his  first  jour 
ney,  and  of  the  way  he  came  to  be  lost. 

She  listened  to  him  intently,  as  if  there  were  some 
strange  charm  in  his  simple  talk.  Her  eyes  rested 
upon  him  with  pleasure.  A  new  look  swept  over 
her  face.  She  leaned  close  to  him. 

"Stay  with  me,  boy,"  she  murmured,  "for  I  want 


THE   BOY   OF   NAZARETH  DREAMS 

you.  Your  people  are  gone.  You  shall  sleep  here 
to-night — you  shall  live  with  me  and  I  will  be  good 
to  you — I  will  teach  you  to  love  me." 

The  Boy  moved  back  a  little  and  looked  at  her 
with  wide  eyes,  as  if  she  were  saying  something 
that  he  could  not  understand. 

"But  you  have  already  been  good  to  me,  sister," 
he  answered,  "and  I  love  you  already,  even  as  your 
brother  did.  Is  your  husband  here  ?  Will  he  come^ 
soon,  so  that  we  can  all  say  the  prayer  of  thanks 
giving  together  for  the  food  ?  " 

Her  look  changed  again;  her  eyes  filled  with 
pain  and  sorrow;  she  shrank  back  and  turned 
away  her  face. 

"I  have  no  husband,"  she  said.  "Ah,  boy,  inno 
cent  boy,  you  do  not  understand.  I  eat  the  bread 
of  shame  and  live  in  the  house  of  wickedness.  I  am 
a  sinner,  a  sinner  of  the  city.  How  could  I  pray?" 

With  that  she  fell  a-sobbing,  rocking  herself  to 
and  fro,  and  the  tears  ran  through  her  fingers  like 
rain.  The  Boy  looked  at  her,  astonished  and  pitiful. 
He  moved  nearer  to  her,  after  a  moment,  and  spoke 
softly. 

293 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

"I  am  very  sorry,  sister,"  he  said;  and  as  he 
spoke  he  felt  her  tears  falling  on  his  feet.  "I  am 
more  sorry  than  I  ever  was  in  my  life.  It  must  be 
dreadful  to  be  a  sinner.  But  sinners  can  pray,  for 
God  is  our  Father,  and  fathers  know  how  to  for 
give.  I  will  stay  with  you  and  teach  you  some  of 
the  things  my  mother  has  taught  me." 

She  looked  up  and  caught  his  hand  and  kissed 
it.  She  wiped  away  her  tears,  and  rose,  pushing 
back  her  hair. 

"No,  dear  little  master,"  she  said,  "you  shall 
not  stay  in  this  house — not  an  hour.  It  is  not  fit 
for  you.  My  Nubian  shall  lead  you  back  to  the 
gate,  and  you  will  return  to  your  friends  outside 
of  the  city,  and  you  will  forget  one  whom  you  com 
forted  for  a  moment." 

The  Boy  turned  back  as  he  stood  in  the  door 
way.  "No,"  he  said.  "I  will  not  forget  you.  I 
will  always  remember  your  love  and  kindness.  Will 
you  learn  to  pray,  and  give  up  being  a  sinner?" 

"I  will  try,"  she  answered;  "you  have  made  me 
want  to  try.  Go  in  peace.  God  knows  what  will 
become  of  me." 

294 


THE   BOY  OF   NAZARETH  DREAMS 

"God  knows,  sister,"  replied  the  Boy  gravely. 
"Abide  in  peace." 

So  he  went  out  into  the  dusk  with  the  Nubian 
andjfound  the  camp  on  the  hillside  and  a  shelter 
in  one  of  the  friendly  tents,  where  he  slept  soundly 
and  woke  refreshed  in  the  morning. 

This  day  he  would  not  spend  in  playing  and  wan 
dering.  He  would  go  straight  to  the  Temple,  to 
find  some  of  the  learned  teachers  who  gave  instruc 
tion  there,  and  learn  from  them  the  wisdom  that 
he  needed  in  order  to  do  his  work  for  his  Father. 

As  he  went  he  thought  about  the  things  that  had 
befallen  him  yesterday.  Why  had  the  man  dressed 
in  white  despised  him  ?  Why  had  the  city  children 
mocked  him  and  chased  him  away  with  stones? 
Why  was  the  strange  woman  who  had  been  so  kind 
to  him  afterward  so  unhappy  and  so  hopeless  ? 

There  must  be  something  in  the  world  that  he 
did  not  understand,  something  evil  and  hateful 
and  miserable  that  he  had  never  felt  in  himself. 
But  he  felt  it  in  the  others,  and  it  made  him  so  sorry, 
so  distressed  for  them,  that  it  seemed  like  a  heavy 
weight,  a  burden  on  his  own  heart.  It  was  like  the 
295 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

work  of  those  demons,  of  whom  his  mother  had 
told  him,  who  entered  into  people  and  lived  inside 
of  them,  like  worms  eating  away  a  fruit. 

Only  these  people  of  whom  he  was  thinking  did 
not  seem  to  have  a  demon  that  took  hold  of  them 
and  drove  them  mad  and  made  them  foam  at  the 
mouth  and  cut  themselves  with  stones,  like  a  man 
he  once  saw  in  Galilee.  This  was  something  larger 
and  more  mysterious — like  the  hot  wind  that  some 
times  blew  from  the  south  and  made  people  gloomy 
and  angry — like  the  rank  weeds  that  grew  in  cer 
tain  fields,  and  if  the  sheep  fed  there  they  dropped 
and  died. 

The  Boy  felt  that  he  hated  this  unknown,  wicked, 
unhappy  thing  more  than  anything  else  in  the  world. 
He  would  like  to  save  people  from  it.  He  wanted 
to  fight  against  it,  to  drive  it  away.  It  seemed  as 
if  there  were  a  spirit  in  his  heart  saying  to  him, 
"This  is  what  you  must  do,  you  must  fight  against 
this  evil,  you  must  drive  out  the  darkness,  you  must 
be  a  light,  you  must  save  the  people — this  is  your 
Father's  work  for  you  to  do." 

But  how?     He  did  not  know.     That  was  what 


THE  BOY  OF  NAZARETH  DREAMS 

he  wanted  to  find  out.  And  he  went  into  the  Tem 
ple  hoping  that  the  teachers  there  would  tell  him. 

He  found  the  vast  Court  of  the  Gentiles,  as  it 
had  been  on  his  first  visit,  swarming  with  people. 
Jews  and  Syrians  and  foreigners  of  many  nations 
were  streaming  into  it  through  the  eight  open  gates, 
meeting  and  mingling  and  eddying  round  in  con 
fused  currents,  bargaining  and  haggling  with  the 
merchants  and  money-changers,  crowding  together 
around  some  group  where  argument  had  risen  to 
a  violent  dispute,  drifting  away  again  in  search  of 
some  new  excitement. 

The  morning  sacrifice  was  ended,  but  the  sound 
of  music  floated  out  from  the  enclosed  courts  in 
front  of  the  altar,  where  the  more  devout  worshippers 
were  gathered.  The  Roman  soldiers  of  the  guard 
paced  up  and  down,  or  leaned  tranquilly  upon  their 
spears,  looking  with  indifference  or  amused  con 
tempt  upon  the  turbulent  scenes  of  the  holy  place 
where  they  were  set  to  keep  the  peace  and  prevent 
the  worshippers  from  attacking  one  another. 

The  Boy  turned  into  the  long,  cool  cloisters,  with 
their  lofty  marble  columns  and  carved  roofs  of  wood, 
297 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

which  ran  around  the  inside  of  the  walls.  Here  he 
found  many  groups  of  people,  walking  in  the  broad 
aisles  between  the  pillars,  or  seated  in  the  alcoves 
of  Solomon's  Porch  around  the  teachers  who  were 
instructing  them.  From  one  to  another  of  these 
open  schools  he  wandered,  listening  eagerly  to  the 
different  rabbis  and  doctors  of  the  law. 

Here  one  was  reading  from  the  Torah  and  ex 
plaining  the  laws  about  the  food  which  a  Jew  must 
not  eat,  and  the  things  which  he  must  not  do  on 
the  Sabbath.  Here  another  was  expounding  the 
doctrine  of  the  Pharisees  about  the  purifying  of 
the  sacred  vessels  in  the  Temple;  while  another, 
a  Sadducee,  was  disputing  with  him  scornfully  and 
claiming  that  the  purification  of  the  priests  was 
the  only  important  thing.  "You  would  wash  that 
which  needs  no  washing,"  he  cried,  "the  Golden 
Candlestick,  one  day  in  every  week !  Next  you  will 
want  to  wash  the  sun  for  fear  an  unclean  ray  of 
light  may  fall  on  the  altar ! " 

Other  teachers  were  reciting  from  the  six  books 
of  the  Talmud  which  the  Pharisees  were  making 
to  expound  the  law.  Others  repeated  the  histories 
298 


THE  BOY  OF  NAZARETH  DREAMS 

of  Israel,  recounted  the  brave  deeds  of  the  Mac 
cabees,  or  read  from  the  prophecies  of  Enoch  and 
Daniel.  Others  still  were  engaged  in  political  de 
bate:  the  Zealots  talking  fiercely  of  the  misdeeds 
of  the  house  of  Herod  and  the  outrages  committed 
by  the  Romans;  the  Sadducees  contemptuously 
mocking  at  the  hopes  of  the  revolutionists  and  show 
ing  that  the  dream  of  freedom  for  Judea  was  foolish. 
"Freedom,"  they  said,  "belongs  to  those  who  are 
well  protected.  We  have  the  Temple  and  priest 
hood  because  Rome  takes  care  of  us."  To  this  the 
Zealots  answered  angrily:  "Yes,  the  priesthood  be 
longs  to  you  unbelieving  Sadducees;  that  is  why 
you  are  content  with  it.  Look,  now,  at  the  place 
where  you  let  Herod  hang  an  accursed  eagle  of  gold 
on  the*  front  of  Jehovah's  House." 

So  from  group  to  group  the  Boy  passed,  listening 
intently,  but  hearing  little  to  his  purpose.  All  day 
long  he  listened,  now  to  one,  now  to  another,  com 
pletely  absorbed  by  what  he  heard,  yet  not  satis 
fied.  Late  in  the  afternoon  he  came  into  the  quietest 
part  of  Solomon's  Porch,  where  two  large  companies 
were  seated  around  their  respective  teachers,  sepa- 
299 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

rated  from  each  other  by  a  distance  of  four  or  five 
columns. 

As  he  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  first  company, 
whose  rabbi  was  a  lean,  dark-bearded,  stern  little 
man,  the  Boy  was  spoken  to  by  a  stranger  at  his 
side,  who  asked  him  what  he  sought  in  the  Temple. 

"Wisdom,"  answered  the  Boy.  "I  am  looking 
for  some  one  to  give  a  light  to  my  path." 

"That  is  what  I  am  seeking,  too,"  said  the 
stranger,  smiling.  "I  am  a  Greek,  and  I  desire 
wisdom.  Let  us  see  if  we  can  get  it  from  this 
teacher.  Listen." 

He  made  his  way  to  the  centre  of  the  circle  and 
stood  before  the  stern  little  man. 

"Master,"  said  the  Greek,  "I  am  willing  to  be 
come  thy  disciple  if  thou  wilt  teach  me  the  whole 
law  while  I  stand  before  thee  thus — on  one  foot." 

The  rabbi  looked  at  him  angrily,  and,  lifting  up 
his  stick,  smote  him  sharply  across  the  leg.  "That 
is  the  whole  law  for  mockers,"  he  cried.  The  stranger 
limped  away  amid  the  laughter  of  the  crowd. 

"But  the  little  man  was  too  angry;  he  did  not 
see  that  I  was  in  earnest,"  said  he,  as  he  came  back 
300 


THE   BOY   OF   NAZARETH   DREAMS 

to  the  Boy.    "Now  let  us  go  to  the  next  school  and 
see  if  the  master  there  is  any  better." 

So  they  went  to  the  second  company,  which  was 
gathered  around  a  very  old  man,  with  long,  snowy 
beard  and  a  gentle  face.  The  stranger  took  his 
place  as  before,  standing  on  one  foot,  and  made 
the  same  request.  The  rabbi's  eyes  twinkled  and 
his  lips  were  smiling  as  he  answered  promptly: 

"Do  nothing  to  thy  neighbor  that  thou  wouldst 
not  have  him  do  to  thee,  this  is  the  whole  law;  all 
the  rest  follows  from  this." 

"Well,"  said  the  stranger,  returning,  "what  think 
you  of  this  teacher  and  his  wisdom?  Is  it  better?" 

"It  is  far  better,"  replied  the  Boy  eagerly:  "it 
is  the  best  of  all  I  have  heard  to-day.  I  am  coming 
back  to  hear  him  to-morrow.  Do  you  know  his 
name?" 

"I  think  it  is  Hillel,"  answered  the  Greek,  "and 
he  is  a  learned  man,  the  master  of  the  Sanhedrim. 
You  will  do  well,  young  Jew,  to  listen  to  such  a 
man.  Socrates  could  not  have  answered  me  better. 
But  now  the  sun  is  near  setting.  We  must  go  our 
ways.  Farewell." 

301 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

In  the  tent  of  his  friends  the  Boy  found  welcome 
and  a  supper,  but  no  news  of  his  parents.  He  told 
his  experiences  in  the  Temple,  and  the  friends  heard 
him,  wondering  at  his  discernment.  They  were 
in  doubt  whether  to  let  him  go  again  the  next  day; 
but  he  begged  so  earnestly,  arguing  that  they  could 
tell  his  parents  where  he  was  if  they  should  come 
to  the  camp  seeking  him,  that  finally  he  won  con 
sent. 


HOW   THE   BOY   WAS   FOUND 

HE  was  in  Solomon's  Porch  long  before  the 
schools  had  begun  to  assemble.  He  paced  up  and 
down  under  the  triple  colonnade,  thinking  what 
questions  he  should  ask  the  master. 

The  company  that  gathered  around  Hillel  that 
day  was  smaller,  but  there  were  more  scribes  and 
doctors  of  the  law  among  them,  and  they  were  speak 
ing  of  the  kingdom  of  the  Messiah — the  thing  that 
lay  nearest  to  the  Boy's  heart.  He  took  his  place 
in  the  midst  of  them,  and  they  made  room  for  him, 
for  they  liked  young  disciples  and  encouraged  them 
to  ask  after  knowledge. 

302 


THE   BOY   OF   NAZARETH  DREAMS 

It  was  the  prophecy  of  Daniel  that  they  were  dis 
cussing,  and  the  question  was  whether  these  things 
were  written  of  the  First  Messiah  or  of  the  Second 
Messiah;  for  many  of  the  doctors  held  that  there 
must  be  two,  and  that  the  first  would  die  in  battle, 
but  the  second  would  put  down  all  his  enemies  and 
rule  over  the  world. 

"Rabbi,"  asked  the  Boy,  "if  the  first  was  really 
the  Messiah,  could  not  God  raise  him  up  again  and 
send  him  back  to  rule  ?  " 

"You  ask  wisely,  son,"  answered  Hillel,  "and 
I  think  the  prophets  tell  us  that  we  must  hope  for 
only  one  Messiah.  This  book  of  Daniel  is  full  of 
heavenly  words,  but  it  is  not  counted  among  the 
prophets  whose  writings  are  gathered  in  the  Scrip 
ture.  Which  of  them  have  you  read,  and  which 
do  you  love  most,  my  son  ?  " 

"Isaiah,"  said  the  Boy,  "because  he  says  God 
will  have  mercy  with  everlasting-kindness.  But 
I  love  Daniel,  too,  because  he  says  they  that  turn 
many  to  righteousness  shall  shine  as  the  stars  for 
ever  and  ever.  But  I  do  not  understand  what  he 
says  about  the  times  and  a  half-time  and  the  days 
and  the  seasons  before  the  coming  of  Messiah." 
303 


THE    VALLEY    OF    VISION 

With  this  there  rose  a  dispute  among  the  doctors 
about  the  meaning  of  those  sayings,  and  some  ex 
plained  them  one  way  and  some  another,  but  Hillel 
sat  silent.  At  last  he  said: 

"It  is  better  to  hope  and  to  wait  patiently  for 
Him  than  to  reckon  the  day  of  His  coming.  For 
if  the  reckoning  is  wrong,  and  He  does  not  come, 
then  men  despair,  and  no  longer  make  ready  for 
Him." 

"How  does  a  man  make  ready  for  Him,  Rabbi?" 
asked  the  Boy. 

"By  prayer,  son,  and  by  study  of  the  law,  and  by 
good  works,  and  by  sacrifices." 

"  But  when  He  comes  He  will  rule  over  the  whole 
world,  and  how  can  all  the  world  come  to  the  Tem 
ple  to  sacrifice?" 

"A  way  will  be  provided,"  answered  the  old  man, 
"though  I  do  not  know  how  it  will  be.  And  there 
are  offerings  of  the  heart  as  well  as  of  the  altar.  It 
is  written,  'I  will  have  mercy  and  not  sacrifice.' ' 

"Will  His  kingdom  be  for  the  poor  as  well  as  for 
the  rich,  and  for  the  ignorant  as  well  as  for  the 
wise?" 

304 


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NOV  21   1937 

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